


The Libertine Society

by BeesAreAwesome



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Anal Distention, Attempted Suicide (Cas), Bestiality, Blood Drinking, Blood and Gore, But Cas is already kind of a demon, Dead Dove: Do Not Eat, Electrocution, Felching, Fisting, Fucked Up Dreams, Gang Bang, Grizzly Death, I will totally repeat: DEAD DOVE DO NOT EAT, Infidelity, Josie is a Hermaphrodite, Mind Control, Multi, Murder, Necrophilia, Skull Fucking, Snakes, Sounding, Stabbing, Suicide (Duma), Tags Contain Spoilers, Technically Temporary MCD, Torture, Unwanted Pregnancy, Urination, Vomit, Wound Fucking, cross-dressing, death by fire, demonic rituals, so he can't actually die, unsafe bdsm practices
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-10
Updated: 2020-05-10
Packaged: 2021-03-03 02:06:47
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 15
Words: 54,119
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24097048
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BeesAreAwesome/pseuds/BeesAreAwesome
Summary: Inspired by The Picture of Dorian Gray, by Oscar Wilde.In the year of 1899, a young man named Castiel Gray learns that there is more to life than his sheltered upbringing and the endless droning of his tutors would lead him to believe.He meets the charismatic Josie Sands--a wealthy and mysterious widow, and Dean Winchester--a most accomplished painter. They introduce him to the hidden side of London’s elite; a place where Castiel learns to nourish his true hedonistic nature.But nothing is quite as it seems, and Castiel soon finds himself in the midst of a much darker and far more sinister world than he ever imagined existed. The only problem is, he loves every minute of it.
Relationships: Abaddon/Castiel/Dean Winchester, Abaddon/Dean Winchester, Castiel/Adam Milligan, Castiel/Arthur Ketch, Castiel/Dean Winchester, Castiel/Duma (Supernatural), Castiel/Sam Winchester, Dean Winchester/Sam Winchester
Comments: 12
Kudos: 27





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This is the only warning other than the tags: If you are a pearl clutcher or easily offended/triggered, please go home and read some fluff. There is none of that within these pages; this will fuck you up. This is dark, strange, and gory--and while the words are written with a somewhat Victorian aesthetic and can be a bit flowery, this will be nothing like reading an actual Oscar Wilde story. 
> 
> Now, with that out of the way! I will give the biggest shout out EVAR to Sunny for the fan-friggin-tastic artwork that was made for this fic! Go follow them on [TUMBLR](https://blueeyesandpie.tumblr.com/) and send all sorts of love!
> 
> Also a billion high fives to the beta squad who came in to save my appalling grammar! Check out their AO3s and give a bunch of kudos!  
> BlindSwandive  
> [Nickelkeep](https://archiveofourown.org/users/nickelkeep/pseuds/nickelkeep)

Castiel stares out the window as his French tutor drones on about repetitive prepositions. He knows this grammar rule already--he is practically fluent. He recites back the rules in French without thought, his mind miles away. 

His parents leave him here--for months on end!-- with only the household staff to occupy his free time while they go galavanting about on some grand adventure or another. He has never been invited to come along, not since he was a young boy of twelve and had gotten into mischief by stealing some old biddy’s favorite earrings. It’s not like he needed them for the wealth they would have brought in--his family had all they could want and more, thanks to his wealthy grandsire, Lord Alistair Kelso--but he wished to get up to no good, simply for the sake of it. 

Father had been his usual callous self--an ex-penniless soldier with so much to prove that he often forgot what was important--and Mother only concerned with whether her gown was of the latest fashion, and so little Castiel had been left to his own devices. Being good never gathered much attention from his parents; perhaps being mischievous would. So when he had gotten the earrings, he decided then and there that he should wear them to the gala that evening, for they were the kind that had clips on the ends and had no need for the wearer to undergo the pain of piercing a hole through their flesh. 

When he had shown up that evening, to his parents’ supreme mortification, the old biddy had hopped up with far more dexterity than one would imagine a lady of her age could yet maintain, and shook her elaborately bejeweled walking staff under his nose, all while screaming, “Thief!” His mother, the ostentatious Lady Devereaux, had slapped the earrings right off his poor little head--right there in front of everyone!

Since then, Castiel has not been allowed to attend when his parents go abroad, even though it has been some five years since that incident--though to be fair, he does often play the cheeky little scamp. And so he sits with his tutors, learning things he has already known for years, and wonders what it would be like to live a life without ennui--without the day-to-day tedium of such a banal existence. He wishes something would happen.

\---

It is when Castiel has dismissed the nagging tutor--with such a foul word that it leaves her clutching her pearls to her chest, looking quite scandalized and gasping, “Why, I never!”--that the knock comes to the door. Castiel mocks her with a scandalized gasp of his own and yells another curse, “ _Va te faire enculer!_ ” as he runs from the study and out to the foyer to open the front doors. (Now, one would think that a servant would be the fellow to open the door, but Castiel firmly believes that what one man can do, any could do for themselves; that, and he could not abide to sit in the study a moment longer with that old nag! So he cheerily greets the stranger himself.)

He is excited to have a surprise guest. Nothing of note ever takes place while his parents are away. He is old enough to have adventures on his own, but his parents have had him cloistered like a nun and he hardly knows a soul. They like to control every motion of his life, even now that he is nearly an adult. 

When Castiel opens the door, he is greeted by a man in plain garb. Well-pressed slacks and a decently tailored frock coat, but nothing as fine as what his parents dress him in. Castiel finds him remarkable in that he is so unremarkable.

“I have a letter, sir. From Valencia.” The plainly dressed man hands over an envelope with Castiel’s name on the front and the stamp of the family solicitor in Spain on the top left. Castiel is curious as to what this could be. Surely if his parents had needed to send him a letter, they would not do so through legal channels. He thanks the man, distracted and barely closing the door behind him as he walks into the sitting room.

He sits and opens the envelope, finding a most disagreeable letter within.

_Mr. Castiel Gray,_

_It is with my deepest regrets that I am to inform you of the deaths of Lady Marageret Devereaux and Oliver Gray._

He reads no further and lets the letter drop to the floor.

\---

Castiel feels the greatest shame that his first instinct was to shout for joy at the news of his parents’ death. Even through the shame, he cannot help the small smile that plays upon his face. What sort of person this makes him is something he will have to dwell upon further. But not now.

It occurs to him that he had been wishing for something to happen, for something to deliver him from such simple mundanities as he was forced to endure his whole existence, and this surely is the answer. And so Castiel picks the fallen letter up off the floor and begins to read again.

_Mr. Castiel Gray,_

_It is with my deepest regrets that I am to inform you of the deaths of Lady Marageret Devereaux and Oliver Gray._

_All titles and deeds of all holdings in the countries of Spain and France, death certificates, and inquest notes have been delivered to Mr. Barton Lewis of Lewis and Associates in the City of London, who holds the final Will and Testaments of Lady Margaret Devereaux and spouse._

_With deepest sympathies,_

_Antony Pe_ _ñ_ _a_

_Pe_ _ñ_ _a and Sons_

_Valencia, Spain_

It would seem Castiel will now have to call upon their solicitor in the City of London and set all matters in order. He is only too eager to get the whole affair out of the way and immediately begins to daydream of what sort of life he may now lead.

\---

Castiel spends several hours practicing his grief in front of a mirror. He thinks he has the expressions and words down convincingly--perhaps he should take up with the players in the city!--but there is a small detail that is just not quite right. He has yet to shed a tear. Perhaps it will come to him eventually, but he is for the time being a combination of numb, relieved, and excited for what his life might now be like. But then a clever plan brews in his mind. 

He walks into the kitchen and pockets a pepper--an expensive and spicy thing brought to England with the Chinese immigrants. When safely back to his room he cracks the thing in two, then rubs a healthy coating of the oils over his fingertips. He dabs gently at the soft skin around his eyes and against his tear ducts and is immediately hit with a horrid burning sensation.

“ _Bordel de merde! Fils de pute_!”

After Castiel is able to get himself back under control, he looks again to the mirror and sees that his eyes have become puffy and bloodshot. It is the perfect ruse and he now feels ready to meet with the solicitor and funeral directors. The pepper has even caused his nose to run and he has to hold back a giggle at his cleverness. He puts the pieces of pepper into his pocket should he need to reapply the oil, takes a clean handkerchief to place in his breast pocket, then collects his things and heads out to the coach.

It is a several hour ride into City of London and he wonders to himself why his family had not taken a solicitor in Bristol. He could walk to Bristol from his home in Bath should he feel adventurous, but here he is stuck in a stuffy coach and being jostled about as the horses run down the bumpy road. He also wonders why he took the coach. It is something his parents would insist upon, but here he is, nearly 18 and now the man of the house, and still doing what his parents would approve of. Next time he must make this trek, he will remind himself to take the train and make an adventure out of it. He smiles as he imagines his parents spinning in their graves over the notion.

The carman pulls the coach up to the brownstone that holds Mr. Barton Lewis’ office and hops down, opening the little carriage door for Castiel. The iron steps are slick with mud from travel and he holds an arm out for Castiel to take, but the willful boy leaps down, forgoing the stairs and the carman’s help altogether. 

He straightens his coat, then takes his leather Gladstone bag from the driver and marches up the steps to the office, remembering at the last minute to dab his pepper oiled fingers upon his eyes one last time. He bites back his expletive at the sting, then enters, eyes freshly watering and nose running.

The office of Mr. Lewis is lavishly furnished and Castiel is impressed with the wealth of books lining the wall. Surely the man has little time to read; they must all be for show. He dabs his nose gently with his handkerchief, careful not to get any of the pepper oil from his fingers in his delicate nose. He pockets the linen, then shakes the hand of a large--and obviously well-fed-- man who shuffles out to meet him.

“Ah. Mr. Gray! My condolences in this sad time. Please, have a seat.” He ushers Castiel into the next room as he speaks, then closes the door, motioning Castiel to sit on the chesterfield chair in front of his desk. There is another, much more cushioned chesterfield on the other side--wingback and well worn-- where Mr. Lewis promptly sits. 

Before they can begin, another man enters the room. Castiel glances up and sees that it is his grandsire, looking hard and cold as always. It would make sense that he is here for the will reading and handing over of estates, but Castiel is made uneasy by his presence and hopes the whole affair is over quickly. Lord Kelso has always made him ill at ease for as long as he can recall.

“Good day, Lord Kelso! Thank you for joining us. Please, sit.” Mr. Lewis motions towards another chair, one that sits directly next to where Castiel is, and the man joins them in a huff. 

“Shall we begin?” Lord Kelso looks intently into the solicitor's face as he speaks, all but ignoring Castiel. He isn’t sure how, but his grandsire managed to acquire a voice that is both deep and nasally, one whose pitch was just right that it sends vibrations up Castiel’s spine. He shivers in discomfort and leans into the side of his chair, trying to sit as far from the man as possible without physically standing and moving away.

“Right,” Mr. Lewis says as he shuffles through the paperwork neatly stacked across his desk. “Your mother’s will leaves all estates, holdings, bank funds, and investments to you. But, as I am sure you are aware, the common law age of majority is 21, and you yet have a living relative who is of sound mind and health. Your person and all wealth, current and inherited on your 21st birthday, are to be taken into the care of your grandfather, Lord Alistair Kelso.

Castiel’s stomach drops at this news. He isn’t sure why he thought things would begin to go well for him after his parents’ deaths. He knows of others who were deemed of majority at a much earlier age than he. But his parents must have thought so little of him that they made certain, even in death, that he should not be his own man until common law saw him as one. He feels tears welling up in his eyes, and he begins to mourn in earnest. His parents ignored him mostly, often pretending he did not exist. But Lord Kelso has always been a very cruel man, and Castiel suddenly misses his parents' neglect, wishing he could go back to being ignored for the next few years instead of having to face whatever terrible abuses Kelso has up his sleeves.

Castiel is snapped out of his reverie with a hard slap to the back of his head that leaves him gasping and seeing stars. “Speak when you’re spoken to, boy.” His grandfather’s voice holds as much menace as he can ever recall, and Castiel blinks rapidly at Mr. Lewis, apologizing at not having heard him.

Mr. Lewis looks at Castiel with a combination of sympathy and pity etched across his face, then repeats himself in a kind voice. “Do you understand, Mr. Gray?”

Castiel nods and speaks softly. “Yes, sir.”

\---

Two days later, Castiel’s home in Bath is boarded up, all the fine furnishings covered with drop cloths so as not to ruin from the dust, and he is bundled up to move into Kelso’s estate at Arlington Street, London, a very decidedly exclusive neighborhood in direct competition with Picadilly for being the most sought after and fashionable place to live amongst the elite. 

For the first several months he is there, it is very much the same as when he lived with his parents. Kelso is rarely at home, and so he spends much of his time alone or studying things with tutors who are far below his own intelligence. 

The main difference is that Kelso expects him to join him for dinner when he is home. And Castiel supposes it wouldn’t be so bad, but the moment he steps out of line--or even makes the smallest of mistakes, like coughing at the dinner table!--he is physically manhandled and left with blood upon his face. And so he does his best not to speak or move much when he is in Kelso’s presence.

His 18th birthday comes and goes and Kelso does not so much as wish him well. Castiel had not been expecting any grand gestures on his grandsire’s part, but a simple acknowledgement would have been an appreciated effort. But Castiel understands; he was his parents' burden, and now he is Kelso’s. It does not matter to him that he is not loved by the man. He is terrifying, after all. But it would be a simply wonderful thing to not feel hated.

  
  


Lexicon:

_va te faire enculer:_ Go fuck yourself

_bordel de merde! :_ Fucking Hell! (or Oh, fuck!)

_fils de pute_ : Son of a whore (or sonofabitch)


	2. Chapter 2

Castiel learns quickly that his grandsire is a man of many vices. Alistair Kelso has strange men coming and going at all hours of the night--almost constantly when the man is actually at home--and Castiel gets the sense that much of his dealings are quite nefarious in nature. Most of the visitors seem to be betting men, much as Kelso himself, but others give Castiel the impression of having much darker interests.

Castiel is sometimes forced from his room to stand in front of these strangers, awkward introductions abounding, and he has to try hard to put on a pleasant and friendly persona in front of them. Some of them barely give him a second glance, while others leer openly, licking their thinly mustachioed lips and sizing him up with something sinister in their finely spectacled eyes. Why he is paraded, he isn’t sure for some many months.

But one evening, shortly after his neglected birthday, as Kelso and a man with a monocle and finely tailored cutaway are sitting in the parlour, Castiel happens across part of their wicked conversation. He hears not the nature of the deal, or what the occurrence was to garner it, but the words spoken leave a pit of terror gnawing at his belly, like hungry rats trying to feast their way through his intestines.

“I’ll take the boy in payment, if he is as complacent as you say. I’ve not seen many so beautiful.”

There is a brief pause in the conversation and Castiel holds his breath, not wanting to be discovered in his eavesdropping. He can imagine that Lord Kelso is weighing his options and pictures the foul smirk upon his face when he speaks with his snake venom voice. “One night only. And no lasting damage. I’ll be having use for him yet.”

“One night, certainly, but for however long I choose.”

“You have yourself a deal, Arthur.” 

Castiel can hear the rustle of clothes as the two men move to shake hands. He silently moves away and quickly retreats to his bedroom to ponder what he has heard. He can only assume to be the boy they spoke of, for he knows he has always been called beautiful--angelic even, by some. Being called “boy” yet stings, though. He fully considers himself a man now and should be considered so by any with eyes. He bites his lip as he considers the nature of work he is expected to do, and why would his physical appearance matter in the least? He is not afraid of physical labour, though the twisting of his gut tells him it is something of a far more unseemly nature that they have planned. His sheltered mind can only concoct so many scenarios before he is out of ideas, and so he collapses to his bed and forces himself into an exhausted and terrified sleep. It is not restful in the least.

\---

It is two days later when Arthur returns to the estate and Kelso greets him warmly. Castiel is reading over his Latin assignments in the library when the man suddenly appears with a leering twitch to his otherwise pristine features. Castiel believes he would be an attractive sort of gentleman should his presence not be so ominous, for Castiel knows he is here to take him upon some strange outing, the nature of which Castiel cannot yet fathom.

Kelso stands before him and beckons Castiel to put aside his work and to follow them. Castiel does not wish to go anywhere, especially not with a man who had bought his services for the evening in some shady, off-the-books deal, but he is currently too afraid of Kelso’s anger to deny him the request. He also feels a great deal of curiosity, even so much as to briefly overcome his trepidation for a time.

His grandsire whispers in his snakey manner for him to follow all orders precisely as they are given or the consequences shall be dire. Castiel believes Kelso, and so nods his assent with wide eyes. He does not meet Kelso’s gaze, but looks to his shoes instead and awaits for his orders.

The man, Arthur--whom he has not been formally introduced to yet, and he assumes will not be any time soon--tells him to stand still and not move until told. And then a sack is thrown over his head and tied tight about his throat with a soft cord. He startles at this and he must make a sudden move that he is not aware of, for he can feel the end of Kelso’s cane connecting to the back of his thigh with a loud crack.

“You were told to stay still, boy.”

Castiel is yanked back into a fully upright position by the cord around his neck and he sobs out a pitiful apology that hardly sounds like his own voice. His curiosity suddenly dissipates to nothing as pure terror grips at his heart.

“Now, now, Kelso. I hardly see that as necessary. I shall take the boy from here.” Castiel can feel Arthur grabbing hold of an arm and pulling him gently to what Castiel can only assume is the front door. Then the man’s voice is directed close to his ear. “I’m sorry for the fright, my boy, but this is merely to keep our destination a secret. You will not have to wear this hood for long, I promise you.” Despite the terror gnawing at his guts, Arthur’s voice is soft and soothing, and Castiel finds himself preferring whatever unknown may come to staying in his grandsire’s presence.

Arthur is true to his word. Castiel is directed into a coach and is told to sit still for the duration of the journey. Even through his fear--making the minutes feel like hours--the jostling of the carriage does not last long at all. He is then maneuvered up a flight of stairs where he can hear a set of grand entry doors opening, then is ushered within. They make a few twists and turns, then he is told to stand still again. He hears a door slide shut and the latch of a lock click into place.

When the hood is removed, Castiel takes a deep calming breath and has a look around the room he is in. He is in a large, ornate washroom with a copper bathtub in the center. It is filled deep with steaming water and Castiel has to blink a few times at the implication. Is he here to play nursemaid for some old senescent dodderer who can’t do for themselves? There are surely others more qualified than he to take care of the aged. He turns and is about to say so when Arthur covers his mouth with a firm hand, effectively cutting off the speech Castiel was about to lay out for him.

“Shhh, shhh, boy. You must do as I say or Kelso will be quite displeased. The only thing you are allowed to say is “yes, sir”. Am I understood?” 

Arthur slowly removes his hand and Castiel blinks up into his face a few times, his stomach flip-flopping about and giving him cause for concern that he will soon need to relieve himself, before he nods and responds with a quiet, “Yes, sir.”

Arthur’s face lights up with joy. “Oh, I just knew you would be the best-behaved boy.” He really did have nice features, and Castiel liked it when he smiled. It made the whole thing a bit less terrifying for him. He attempted a small smile of his own in response. If he could make this man happy, then he would have nothing to fear from Kelso in the immediate future.

“Now, stay put while I get you out of these clothes. You must be filthy after playing with the other children all day. It is time to get you clean.”

Castiel’s eyes widen and he takes an inhale of breath and a step backwards. If the man wants him to bathe, fine, But he hardly needs a chaperone to do so! “What--” he begins, but the rest of the words are slapped from his face, hard enough that he stumbles back and falls to the floor. He blinks up at Arthur in shock, rubbing a hand over his aching jaw. 

“Disobedient boys get punished. That will be your only warning. The next punishment will be quite severe, I assure you. Now, are you going to be my good boy?” Arthur’s eyes glint with a menace Castiel has only ever seen on his grandsire, Kelso, and it makes him swallow back the bile in his throat. He takes back the thought that there are any appealing qualities to this man’s face. He is horrid--as detestable as Kelso himself. Castiel wants out of this place as quick as possible. He knows if he puts up too much of a fight that he will earn both Arthur’s ire in the here and now, and also Kelso’s as soon as he returns home, and he just cannot stomach the thought of such hardship. And so he closes his eyes to the tears that well up and nods his head. 

“Yes, sir.”

Arthur kneels down to the beautifully tiled floor where Castiel still sits and begins to undo each button of Castiel’s shirt, one at a time. “That’s my good boy. Being nice and still for me.”

Arthur’s breath tickles across Castiel’s face as he speaks, and he wishes it was rank and vile so he could be more disgusted, but it is sweet like lavender and cloves. Castiel hates having such a pleasant odor sullying this strange and unhappy event.

When the last button is undone, Castiel’s shirt is pushed back over his shoulders with soft and tender fingers, each caressing his skin as they move down his arms. He shivers at having his skin tickled in such an intimate way and swallows back the spittle that begins to form at the back of his mouth.

Castiel lets out a whimper when the man reaches down to unbutton his trousers, but knows there is nothing he can do about it. “You are doing so splendidly, my boy. Now lean back and lift your hips for me.” Castiel complies, feeling absolute mortification at having his trousers and small clothes pulled down past his hips in one fluid motion, exposing him to the air and prying eyes of Arthur. 

But the man does not touch him, simply tsks and says, “Oh, this will not do.” He pointedly looks at the hair trailing down Castiel’s lower stomach to his groin and shakes his head. “Into the tub, my boy.

Castiel rids himself of his shoes and socks with shaking hands as Arthur stands up and walks to a cupboard in the corner and begins to dig through it. Castiel pulls his pants the rest of the way down his legs, then climbs into the tub, grateful to have himself obscured to some extent by the water. It is almost too hot, but Castiel does not mind, for if he is in the tub, Arthur surely can not do anything to his most private areas. He curls himself into a ball and watches wearily as Arthur takes out a lathering brush, shaving soap, and a barber's razor. 

“Wet your face.”

Castiel raises his wet hands and splashes water on his face several times while Arthur pulls a padded stool from the corner of the room and sits himself next to the tub. “Now lean back, and don’t move. I don’t want my sweet boy getting hurt.”

Castiel leans back and rests his head on the tub, terrified if he even breathes deep, the man will slice his neck open. The razor looks sharp enough to kill and Arthur looks the sort to get his shaving from a barber, not skilled in the trade himself. He considers taking the blade from Arthur's grip and slicing the man’s own throat open, but this is not something he can bring himself to do. He is not the sort to do well on a hangman's gallows and would likely shit himself for all to see should he be caught doing a murder such as he fantasizes. And so he squeezes his eyes shut as Arthur lathers his stubbled jaw and neck, and prays for this to be over quick.

But Arthur is quite meticulous, it seems. It feels like it takes half of the night for Arthur to finally finish with the coarse hairs around his throat before he moves down and lathers Castiel’s chest and armpits. He spends a great deal of time on the scant hairs that grow around Castiel’s nipples, and he supposes that he is at least grateful that the man is so careful. Arthur then moves on to each leg, and gets every part of Castiel that allows him to stay seated in the water, allowing him that slight amount of cover as long as possible--another thing that Castiel feels grateful for. Wherever this whole evening is going, at least the man is giving him the small kindness of getting at his private areas last.

But soon Castiel is instructed to exit the tub and lie on the floor. Arthur sets a soft towel in place for Castiel to rest upon, then begins lathering up his thighs, pubis, and testicles. Castiel takes a deep breath and lets his knees fall open as Arthur’s razor removes his remaining hair. It is a terribly mortifying thing when Arthur must grasp his penis to hold it out of the way, but he supposes that is the only way to get a properly shorn scrotum. Castiel almost laughs. The things he learns--and never wanted to know! 

When Arthur is finished, he smiles down at Castiel with such adoration that Castiel begins to see the man’s beauty again. He finds that he quite likes being looked at in such a manner, enough so that his fear recedes into the dark, hidden places of his mind. “Almost done. You’re being such a good boy.” Castiel smiles back and it is genuine. Arthur has been kind so long as he does as he is told, and the man truly does seem to be taking a lot of care in his work on Castiel’s body. “Hands and knees. Face that wall there.”

Castiel’s smile slips and his eyes widen a fraction before slowly sitting up and moving into position. His trepidation comes back. He may be naive and sheltered, but there are things he could imagine Arthur wanting to do with him in that position and it leaves his mouth dry. But then he feels the lathering brush hit his posteriors and the crack in between and he begins to blush profusely, unintentionally letting out a small laugh. He hadn’t thought of it, but he supposes there is a bit of hair back there too. 

“Are you ticklish?”

“Yes, sir.” 

Castiel can hear Arthur chuckle as he begins sliding his razor across Castiel’s backside. He has to make a conscious effort not to squirm. If he is honest with himself, it does feel quite nice.

This last area does not take long and Arthur has Castiel stand up. He gathers a bottle of sweet-smelling oil from the cupboard and coats his hands profusely. He gently begins covering Castiel’s shaved skin with the stuff, beginning with his jaw and working his way down. It stings at first, then leaves a cooling sensation that soothes him. When he is allowed to speak, he should ask what the stuff is. He would not mind purchasing some for himself!

Arthur kneels before him and coats his legs and thighs, then slides his hands down the crack of Castiel’s posteriors and over his testicles, gently massaging the oil into his skin. He then coats his inner thighs and pubis. Arthur is reverent in his duty, touching Castiel like he is priceless, and when he looks up again, Castiel can see all of these things plain as day in the man’s eyes. Castiel isn’t sure what he is feeling at the moment, but he knows he loves feeling revered. It could become something of an addiction if he is not careful.

Arthur holds Castiel’s body close to him, and begins trailing wet kisses across his belly and hip bones. His hands find their way back to his ass and begin massaging the skin around his hole. Without thought, Castiel finds his hands in the man’s hair, gently urging his face downwards. He has no idea what has come over him, but he can feel himself growing hard and would like some gratification out of this whole ordeal, his initial terror completely forgotten.

“You are an eager boy, aren’t you?” 

Arthur takes Castiel in his mouth before he can respond, and Castiel throws his head back and gasps, “Yes, sir!” It is the most remarkable sensation Castiel has ever felt--and he has taken himself in hand plenty of times, for it is what young men his age do. But no sensation he has been able to create on his own compares to this.

Castiel is fully hard when Arthur pulls away and stands up, taking him by the hand. He silently leads Castiel to an adjoining room that is decked out in the most expensive and fashionable furnishings, including a bed larger than any in Castiel’s own estates. He is rich and knows finery, but this man must be royalty to afford such things!

Castiel is directed to lie back on the center of the bed and so he climbs up and lies back, curious as to what will happen next. His stomach flutters, but it is not in fear, only anticipation. Arthur has made no move to remove any of his own clothes, and so Castiel hopes he is solely on the receiving end of whatever should happen. He isn’t certain he would be able to use his mouth like that on Arthur and the thought has his engine lagging.

Arthur just stands and stares at him for a while, looking like he is memorizing every curve and dip of Castiel’s body. Eventually, the man sighs. “You really are a perfect boy.” He looks into Castiel’s eyes and then smirks, a little less reverent looking, and a whole lot more devious. “Are you ready for me?”

Castiel doesn’t know what’s to happen and hasn’t any idea if he’s ready for it. But that sort of thinking isn’t allowed tonight. “Yes… sir.”

Arthur climbs up the bed and situates himself between Castiel’s legs. “Be a good boy and put your arms above your head.”

Castiel hesitates for only a moment, then does what he is told. Even with Arthur covering him, he feels entirely exposed in this position. “Yes, sir.”

Arthur reaches up and procures a leather binding Castiel had not seen before and firmly attaches each wrist to the headboard. He tests the bonds and finds that he cannot move his arms from their position--he is firmly secured with no hope of escaping what’s in store. When Castiel gives him a wide-eyed and questioning look, Arthur responds with, “You’ve been wonderful, but I cannot have you pulling my hair again.”

Before Castiel can fully process what is happening, Arthur is again swallowing down his length with such greed that Castiel wonders if there will be anything left of him when the night is through. He throws his head back into the pillows and lets out a throaty moan and lets his legs fall completely open, giving Arthur all the room he needs to do this deviant act.

This being the first time anything of the sort has happened, Castiel does not take long until he feels his stomach tightening up with the first signs of his release. He can feel Arthur humming a little laugh around his cock, surely aware of what Castiel’s body is about to do. Arthur does nothing to try and avoid the spurts of ejaculate entering his mouth, but instead swallows Castiel down, seminal fluids and all. Castiel thinks he may have urinated with his release, but Arthur continues to suckle at him like a hungry babe, even when Castiel begins to become soft again. 

Castiel squirms around the man’s mouth, feeling overly sensitive and wishing he would pull away and give him a moment's respite. But the man continues, not giving Castiel his moment to settle. If anything, Arthur seems to renew his vigor and sucks harder, causing Castiel to cry out and shake in his bonds. The man knows precisely what he is doing.

This continues on for some time, Arthur humming and working his wet mouth around Castiel’s spent cock. But as it is inevitable, Castiel becomes hard again. 

Arthur pauses his motions for a moment, his mouth still wrapped around Castiel, and shuffles on the bed. Castiel can smell the sweet aroma of oil filling the air and only has to wonder for a moment what Arthur could be planning to do with it, when a slicked finger enters his ass, quite unceremoniously. Castiel lets out a yelp at the sudden intrusion. It does not hurt, per se, but isn’t the most pleasant sensation. He feels as if he is being prodded into having a movement and so clenches his muscle around the intruding digit and tries to wiggle away. He does not care what the repercussions may be. He will not shit on this fine bed, and especially not with Arthur’s face so close!

But it seems that is not what the man has in mind, for soon the man’s prodding digit finds a cluster of nerves buried deep within Castiel. He lets out a shout of surprise and begins to pant as Arthur begins to firmly massage the spot with the pad of his finger. His mouth begins to suckle and swallow around Castiel’s length again, and he feels as if he might pass out from the intense sensations.

Arthur is merciless. He slips a second finger inside, continuously rubbing circles deep inside Castiel. Stars explode behind Castiel’s eyes as a second orgasm is suddenly ripped from him. He thinks he must pass out for a moment, so intense the feeling, because when he gains his vision back, Arthur is laughing around his lagging cock. But the man still does not cease.

He continues on with the same vigor and enthusiasm as he began with and Castiel can feel a tear sliding from his eye at the onslaught. It felt wonderful at first, but it now mostly hurts, and he isn’t sure how much more of this he can take. It takes much longer for Arthur to coax the next orgasm from him, and it is far less in intensity than the last, but it is still a surprise when it comes and leaves Castiel panting and crying, his head shaking side to side.

Castiel wants it to stop. He has never experienced such an amazing sensation, but it is becoming far too much. His nerves are on fire and he is sore. He desperately needs a respite. But Arthur shows no signs of stopping, and Castiel has to wonder how the man’s jaw has not become frightfully tired. He must have lots of practice at this sort of thing. And that thought brings him to think of others Arthur has done this to; were they all given to him as payment by some power-hungry or greedy family member, such as Castiel was? And what are the services that he provides that would call for such a transaction?

Castiel finds that he is able to stay within his own head with his thoughts and dissociates from what Arthur is doing. It has been quite pleasurable and he can’t deny that he has had some strange and dark interest piqued inside of him, but Castiel has never been subjected to this sort of deviancy before and it is too much for him to handle all at once. 

His mind blocks the discomfort of the situation as he thinks of all the things he would like to do when he is free from Kelso. He will surely travel abroad and perhaps stay in the estates his parents had purchased in France and Spain. He has heard some of the household staff talk about how risque some of the places in those countries have become and he is curious to try out some carnal acts, but as a willing participant and with a lover of his own choosing.

Castiel’s mind wanders to Arthur’s razor and again imagines using the thing to cut the life out of the man. Or to cut the life from Kelso, for he is the true brute--selling off his own kin to relieve some debt that he could have used his immeasurable wealth to settle. If anyone should deserve the razor it would be Alistair Kelso. But if he were to do it--to truly kill off his grandsire--perhaps the razor should not be the implement, for it would cause a tremendous mess and would make quite obvious the nature of his grandsire’s demise. He tries to recall back the medical books he had read in his youthful boredom. Perhaps a tincture could be made with lethal doses of some household poisons.

Castiel has a vague recognition of pleasure coursing through his body again and thinks that perhaps this Arthur fellow has coaxed him to release again. But he does not truly feel what is happening to his physical body and his thoughts continue to wander. He does not notice when Arthur finally pulls away from him, or when the sun begins to slowly creep up the horizon, so trapped in his thoughts as he is. He does not notice when he is bathed again, or clothed, or carried like a bride back out to the coach with a sack tied firmly around his head. He does not notice a thing of the world around him until he wakes up late the following afternoon, tucked into his own bed, Kelso kicking him awake to join him at the table for dinner.


	3. Chapter 3

Days go by uneventfully, for Kelso has some business dealings to attend to in Leeds, and Castiel takes the respite for what it is and thinks. What should his life be like should his parents not have died? It was always known that he would eventually be married to some lady of high ranking and been expected to act the proper, most civilized of heirs. But his parents had always treated him as if his mere existence was shameful to them. So Castiel wonders if that would have changed eventually, if they would have treated him with love and respect if he did his duty like a good son. But it is all idle fancy, now. His parents are dead and it is of no use to dwell on such things. Kelso, however, is very much alive, and so Castiel shifts his thoughts to him.

Would his grandsire continue with what his parents had wished and do the same? Marry him off to some lady of his choosing, or would he set him loose on the world as some strange and damaged  _ thing _ when he was considered of the majority? Castiel suspects the latter, for despite his great wealth, he has had no good fortune and Kelso has always been unkind to him.

His grandsire had never approved of Castiel’s father. He had even tried to have him killed at one point when Castiel was still just a babe. So when Castiel had been born, Kelso saw him as a disgrace to the pedigree. If it weren’t for his mother’s cleverness in creating her own wealth (for Kelso had got nothing when his own parents died), Castiel and his parents would have been destined to live off of a soldier’s pension and exist as the common people of England. Kelso had been quite furious about this. And now that his daughter and unwanted son-in-law are dead and gone, he has free reign to take out his distaste on Castiel however he chooses.

Castiel had expected to be locked in a room or beaten to no end--and while yes, he has suffered by the end of the man’s cane, the punishment of being loaned out to that strange man seemed odd at best. Castiel suspects that it was intended to be quite more traumatic than it was, but what it did, in truth, was unlock a dark piece inside of Castiel that had been hidden away until this point. And while the time he was forced to spend with Arthur was indeed terrifying and left him feeling uneasy, it was also liberating in a strange way that Castiel cannot quite fathom. He wants to curl into a ball and cry over it--and has--but also secretly wishes for something like it to happen again. He is quite conflicted and remains so until Kelso comes home three days later.

\---

It happens in a similar manner as the first time. He is removed from his Latin studies and brought into the hallway where Arthur waits, a black sack and cord held tight in his hands. Castiel imagines it would be quite a simple thing to find out where the man lives. He knows he is not supposed to know his name--it is of their own folly that their secret meeting was not so secret--but he knows this fact, and it is not a far carriage ride to where it is he was taken before. This Arthur must be of Arlington Street, as well--and the man looks the part to fit the exclusiveness of the neighborhood. Castiel determines to pay close attention to the distance traveled.

He is uneasy as the sack is placed over his head and he is led out to the waiting carriage. Kelso says nothing to him as he departs, and Arthur only reminds him to keep still and quiet. Castiel does as he is told and waits for the carriage to push off. 

He is both relieved and upset that Arthur has bought him again. It would have been a grand thing for it to have been a one-off encounter, and for Castiel to be left to discover these deviant things of his own accord. He is disappointed that he will be forced to entertain Arthur in such a way again, even though he feels as if he knows what to expect with the man. If Castiel is to be lent out to strange fellows, he almost wishes it were someone different. He does not wish to form a bond in response to these repeat transactions.

The coach begins to move and Castiel stills his thoughts. End of the street, left turn. Another immediate left, then straight for two minutes. Left turn again, and another left. Yes, the man is of Arlington Street, likely at the far end from Lord Kelso’s estate. Castiel will most certainly look into Arthur’s identity. 

When the hood is removed from his head, Castiel can see that he has been led to the same room as before, the copper tub filled high and steaming. 

“Did you have fun playing with the other children today, my boy?”

Castiel is immediately annoyed at this man for insinuating he is not an adult. He truly is, and no common law, or Kelso, or some child-hungry Arthur will convince him otherwise. He sets dagger eyes to Arthur, but knows what it is he has to say. “Yes, sir.”

“I must say, you look quite filthy. I shall bathe you clean, now.” Arthur gives Castiel a knowing smile. He most certainly can feel the disdain emanating off Castiel in waves, and looks quite smug in the knowledge that Castiel can do nothing about it, lest he acquire the fearsome wrath of Kelso.

Without further prompting, Castiel begins to unbutton his fine linen shirt in hopes that Arthur will allow him to undress himself. It is a valiant attempt at deferring the contact that is inevitable, but Arthur grabs his hands and places them by his sides. “Nono, boy. Allow me to help.” And so Arthur leans in and removes Castiel’s clothing.

As before, Castiel is bathed and shaved of all body hair--though it has barely grown long since he was here last--then brought to the adjoining room with the bed. He is again tied down with his arms secured firmly to the headboard, but this time, his legs are pried apart and each tied to the foot posts. 

“You are not to move or make a sound. Act as if you are dead. Do you understand?”

Castiel’s eyes grow large and he is suddenly very nervous. But he nods his head, not even daring the simple “Yes sir” he has been allowed to this point. If the man does the same to him as before, it will be a struggle not to move or make noise, but Castiel thinks he can muster the will to do so. But he fears there is more in store for him this time around.

Castiel desperately wishes he had the nerve to fight back, but his fear of Kelso has been so ingrained into him that he dares not test his luck in this matter. And so he lies still, wide eyes staring up to the ceiling awaiting Arthur’s first move. 

He inhales a quick breath when he feels something cold and metallic brushing against the head of his flaccid penis, but does not move. Arthur nudges the cold metal against the slit and begins rubbing back and forth, slowly coaxing the object within. Castiel closes his eyes tight as a shiver wracks his body. The cold metal is uncomfortable against his skin, and there is some mild pain involved with the penetration of such a sensitive area--even though it is not inside deeper than a few centimeters at most--but it is not yet so bad that he will be forced to move without thought. He concentrates on remaining still and tries not to feel what is happening. 

“You are such a good boy, staying so still and silent. I think you are ready for more.” The metal object is removed from his skin and Castiel opens his eyes to watch what Arthur does, all the while trying his hardest to not move his head. He can see Arthur holding a long, thin rod with a rounded ball at the end and a rubbery looking grip on the part that he holds in his hand. There is a long cord leading from the grip to a wooden box with a crank. Castiel has no idea what the device may be, but he is certain to find out at any moment.

Arthur uncaps a jar with Chinese symbols that holds some sort of jelly within, then looks into Castiel’s fearful eyes with a wide, mocking smile. He is both beautiful and hideous. Arthur holds the wand up to Castiel’s face and turns the crank once, sending tiny blue sparks from the end. Castiel squeezes his eyes shut and tries not to cry. What Arthur did last time was pain and pleasure, but Castiel does not see how there could be any pleasure now that electricity is involved.

Arthur begins turning the crank and a multitude of tiny sparks are released, then he slowly lowers the wand to the skin of Castiel’s lip. Castiel’s body flinches minutely as the sparks make contact. He squeezes his eyes shut and focuses on breathing. It hurts, but not as Castiel has suspected it would. It makes his skin tingle in a peculiar way that he cannot seem to describe. Arthur laughs at his response, and at his obvious determination not to move nor make a sound. He continues to laugh as he slowly slides the wand down Castiel’s throat and chest, pausing to attend quite thoroughly to his left nipple. Shivers wrack down Castiel’s body and he begins to shake with the effort of staying still. He wants to scream and thrash about, and yell for Arthur to stop, and to never stop all at once. 

Arthur does not move away from his nipple, even after the electricity begins to feel like razor blades slicing into his flesh and a steady stream of tears have fallen down his cheeks. Arthur only moves on to the next when Castiel’s skin feels well and sunburnt. He will be in pain for several days after this, he is certain. Arthur spends the same amount of time on the other side, and by the time he finally moves on, Castiel is panting and doing all he can to not whimper and writhe. He desperately wants to go home. Surely nothing Kelso could do to him would be worse than this!

Arthur runs the wand up and down the delicate skin of Castiel’s belly, and though it is not a sensitive area in such a way as his nipples are, it hurts quite profoundly. Castiel barely manages to hold back a sob, though his face screws up, and his body inadvertently twitches away and lets out a loud yelp when the wand is brushed against his ticklish side. 

Before he can register what is happening, he is struck across his face with a hard slap that leaves his nose tingling and gearing up for a hard sneeze. His breath hitches several times as he tries unsuccessfully to hold it back. Once the sneeze has escaped, he is struck again, backhanded with hard knuckles. He can taste blood on his lip as Arthur hisses at him.

“You were told not to move. Since you are such a disobedient boy, you will be punished severely.”

Castiel panics. He begins thrashing about his bindings, futile as the attempt to escape is, and manages to buck Arthur off the side of the bed with a loud thud as his back connects with the little table his things are set up on. The man is practically bristling by the time he rights himself.

Arthur’s face is contorted in pure rage and Castiel is terrified as to what is to come. If he survives this encounter, he will surely be hard-pressed to survive Kelso’s wrath, but Castiel does not think about the consequences, for his mind begins slipping into a state of pure panic and he has no control over what his body chooses to do in response. 

Arthur turns a little dial on the box, then begins turning the crank again, with much more gusto than he had before. He firmly places the wand back to Castiel’s body, no longer leaving a light trail of sparks, but now a steady current of electric pain. Arthur holds the wand on the most sensitive bits of skin Castiel has--armpits, neck, his sides and behind his knees. Castiel is screaming by the time Arthur stops turning the crank.

He pulls away for a moment and Castiel takes the opportunity to catch his breath. But it is only a short respite, for when he feels Arthur’s weight back on the bed, there is something large and phallic-shaped being shoved into his mouth. Arthur secures the thing with a clasp to the back of Castiel’s head, effectively cutting off the loud cries that try to escape his full mouth. Only muffled half-sounds can be heard when he tries to curse at Arthur, which is fairly for the best--it would do no good for the man to have his ears offended by such vulgarities as Castiel would like to deliver--for the punishment for such is fully beyond Castiel’s comprehension. 

Additional straps are tied around Castiel’s knees and are pulled taut, widening the distance his legs are held apart. One more strap is thrown over his hips then secured tightly to the sides of the bed, disallowing him to buck up again. His legs ache from the bindings almost immediately, but there is no longer any room for him to wiggle out of his discomfort. He is surely immobilized in his bonds and he wonders at how much better it would have been had he not cried out before.

Arthur then takes a bit of the jelly out of the elaborate, Chinese jar and coats the end of his wand with the stuff. It smells sterile.

When Arthur grabs his limp cock, Castiel’s body tenses up, but he does not move--even if he could, he does not try--for his body has become rigid with fear. He clenches his eyes shut and wills himself away, to dissociate like he had been able to do the last time he was here, but his mind remains frightfully aware. It is a dull pain--not sharp and rigid like the electricity--that hits his nerves as Arthur starts slowly inserting the wand into the slit of his penis with gentle up and down motions, each slide of the wand going deeper each time. When the wand is fully inserted, Castiel can feel it hit that bundle of nerves Arthur had found with his fingers before and Castiel is wracked with a sudden tremor through his body. The pleasure is enough to cover the pain for a brief moment, and Castiel moans deep behind his gag.

Castiel can hear Arthur laughing at his sudden reaction--that smug fuck is quite pleased with himself, Castiel is sure. He cannot help but become hard as the man slowly fucks him with the wand. He has not turned the crank while the thing has been inside of him, and Castiel is quite relieved--though Castiel is certain the sadistic fiend would do so if he had another hand or a helper of some sort in attendance. Since his mind will not seem to go elsewhere at this moment, he tries to focus only on the pleasurable aspects of what is being done to him. The wand brushes that sweet bundle of nerves every time Arthur pushes it back in, and it is not long before Castiel is panting as his stomach clenches with his inevitable release. But before he comes, Arthur ceases his motions to quickly turn the crank on the box, sending electric sparks through the inside of Castiel’s cock. Castiel screams around his gag as the most intense orgasm he has ever known hits him. Stars explode behind his eyes then the world goes black.

Castiel is in and out of consciousness for the rest of Arthur’s ministrations, and Castiel is glad that his mind is finally able to cut off as it had before. He is peripherally aware of each electric shock he receives, and each time Arthur coaxes him to release. And same as last time, there is no resting period in between, but a constant onslaught of never-ending sensations. He is only vaguely aware when he is bathed again and eventually returned home, and the last thought he has before he falls asleep in his own bed is that he will look into how he shall get away with murder.


	4. Chapter 4

Castiel barely has enough time to heal from his burns before Arthur takes him again, and then again only a few days after that. It is more of the same. The strange ritual shaving, then a full evening of pleasure/torture followed by bathing, and then home. 

Arthur is almost gentle with him the third time he is there, spending a good portion of the evening with Castiel on his hands and knees doing marvelous things with his tongue and fingers. He has Castiel moaning like a wanton whore and begging the man for a release that he is never allowed. But the time following that is nearly all pain. Arthur has Castiel strung up by the wrists and spends a good portion of the time flogging his ass and genitals. But the man knows what he is doing. Castiel does not come away permanently injured from any of these affairs, but is most certainly tired and quite sore for days to follow.

Castiel makes the mistake of telling Kelso after that fourth visit that he does not wish to be lent to Arthur again--though he does not use his name, for it is still something he is not supposed to know. He begs and pleads with his grandsire to cease these transactions, but Kelso was never a man to be persuaded by Castiel, and instead of listening as Castiel hopes he would do, Kelso beats him bloody with the end of his cane until Castiel can no longer stand on his own.

The following day, Kelso finally leaves to attend business in Leeds. Castiel will be by himself for the whole week, and he can think of nothing better than the quietude he hopes to find. His groin is still tender from the flogging, and the rest of his body is in agony from the fresh beating, though he is certain nothing has become broken. Kelso, too, is a master at what he does and always makes certain there will never be permanent markings. 

As Castiel lays back upon his bed and attempts to stretch his aching muscles, he thinks again about how he should kill his grandsire. Once that man is out of the way, it should be fairly quick business to find out who Arthur truly is and have him put down as well. He would not like to spend much time on Kelso, for Castiel does not believe the man deserves the attention. Something quick should be fine, perhaps a concoction of household chemicals. But Arthur. He has taught Castiel so much in their short time together--so much about pleasure and pain--that he feels he deserves great attention lavished upon him as he dies. 

Castiel pictures the man tied down and, in his mind, he slowly pushes needles through his skin. They will be quite long so they will no doubt puncture into the organs. There should be hundreds of them, each one precisely placed to cause maximum pain. Several go into his chest, sneaking around his rib cage to puncture his lungs. It would not kill the man outright, but it would be such excruciating pain! Needles will go into his armpits, through his eyes, groin, and testicles. Arthur shall be screaming in the most sincere agony before Castiel slides the final few needles into his throat. And when Castiel has finally got the last needle placed, he shall rip them all out, one by one, so that Arthur may bleed out of a hundred holes at once.

Castiel takes his bruised and aching cock in his hand as he watches with his mind’s eye how Arthur dies--slow and in the worst agony. He has become quite aroused at the thought and must do his duty to relieve the building tension. He finds his release as he pictures stomping on the skull of the newly deceased Arthur, brain matter and blood escaping to ruin Castiel’s fine shoes. 

Castiel lies back, panting, and he wonders if this is all his life will be from here on out, and if he truly has the stones to change his situation. He prays for deliverance, for he is not sure the courage will ever come to him.

\---

It is well before noon on the following day when there is a knock upon the door. Castiel is both invigorated and afraid at the notion of a visitor. It would be nice to see another human that is not a part of the household staff, but Castiel feels his nerves clenching down at the thought that it may be someone like Arthur, sneaking in to get a free taste of Castiel’s body while Kelso is out.

But Castiel is not deterred from greeting whomever this may be, and so he jumps up on his sore limbs and rushes down the stairs to get at the door before the servant on duty can attend to it. 

The sight before him is one that steals his breath from his lungs. Standing before him is the most divine creature Castiel has ever had the pleasure of lying his eyes upon. She is tall--nearly as tall as he-- with the most remarkably red hair, and strikingly clear, hazel eyes that seem to shine green, then light brown, and then back again. Her pouty red lips stand out in stark contrast to her perfect, pale skin--nothing like himself, who has a much darker complexion. Castiel realizes he must look the slack-jawed fool, for she lifts an eyebrow at him and a small, knowing smile graces her lips.

“I’m so sorry, you took me by surprise!” Castiel clears his throat and quickly collects himself. “What may I do for you, miss…”

“Sands. Josephine, but my friends may call me Josie. And I suspect that you and I are about to become very good friends, indeed. I thought I had witnessed that old devil, Kelso, sneak a fine young man within, and it seems my eyes were not deceived. I live in the neighboring estate, and would like to invite you to dine with me this evening.” She holds out a graceful and slender hand and Castiel takes it and places a soft kiss to the knuckles, then smiles down at her.

“Well, Miss Sands,”

“Josie,” she interrupts with a smile.

“Well, Miss Josie, I am Castiel, and I should like to most graciously accept your invitation. Tell me a time and I shall be there.”

“No later than six o’clock. Supper will be served promptly.” She looks as though she is about to say more--a small inhale of breath and an open mouth--but instead, she smiles again and turns, starting her walk to the neighboring estate. She looks over a delicate shoulder as she walks away, still smiling, and Castiel is captivated. 

“Six prompt,” he says to himself as he watches her retreat to her own estate. It is only now that he notices that she is dressed all in mourning black, and he wonders who she has lost to have her dressed so somberly.

\---

It takes Castiel far longer to get ready than it should have. Even though it is a simple dinner between neighbors, he still wishes to look his very best and ends up changing his garments several times before he is satisfied. He, too, wears all black, but not because he is still in mourning--not that he ever was--but he likes the look of it. It feels classic and elegant. Once he is satisfied, his valet, Adam, diligently tidies up the clothing Castiel has strewn about and sets to righting his messy hair. He is superbly coiffed--with his part just so-- by the time Adam is through with him.

Castiel pilfers a bottle of wine from Kelso’s stash--something the man will likely not miss--and cuts a rose from the small garden out back. He isn’t sure if it is too much, but he feels as if he should contribute to the evening’s fare.

He knocks on Josie’s door at half five and is ushered in by a butler to wait in the parlour. He hands his wine off to the man, then sits. Castiel immediately feels his ears redden as he recalls his earlier mistake. What must Miss Sands think of him answering his own door like some over-excited child? In the future, he shall make certain to let the staff do their proper duties and not look the buffoon--or the child-- again.

Castiel’s tedious thoughts are interrupted as Josie gracefully glides into the room. She is like a black swan, all elegance and poise, and dressed so magnificently that Castiel wonders if he should have tried harder to impress the woman. But she is all smiles and leans in to kiss his cheek as he stands to greet her. The scent that wafts from Josie is intoxicating--some glorious combination of cardamom and vanilla with a hint of lavender--and Castiel feels as if he might swoon. 

“Welcome, Castiel. Please, sit.” Josie motions for Castiel to rest and sits down next to him, perhaps closer than would be appropriate, and arranges her skirts so her slender ankles and calves are quite exposed. How brazen of her! But Castiel cannot say that it is a disappointment.

Castiel takes in her black attire and his curiosity is piqued again. “If it is not too bold of me to ask, who is it you have lost?”

Josie smiles at him, but it does not reach her eyes as though some dark thought is crossing her mind. Castiel immediately regrets making note of her grief and determines to make her truly smile before the night is through.

“My husband passed recently. It was very sudden and unexpected. Please don’t think me too wicked for saying so, but his death has been nothing but a relief. I am glad for it.”

Castiel can see the sincerity in her eyes and wonders what kind of cruel monster could ever make an angel such as Josie unhappy. He, too, is very glad for the man’s passing.

“I understand that. I felt much the same when my parents died in a boating accident some months ago. I felt free; liberated. Like the world was suddenly opened up for me to do what I wished--to finally be myself without constant ridicule and shame.” Castiel huffs out a bitter laugh and shakes his head. Kelso has swoopt in and ruined any notions of the like.

“You have not found yourself, I take it?” Josie places a soft, warm hand over Castiel’s in a gesture of comfort. His heart skips a beat when he looks at her soft, kind face, and takes the comfort for what it is, glad for her close presence.

“Oh, no. Kelso has seen to it that I am precisely what he needs me to be. I will not have any say in my life until he, too, is dead and gone. It may be in poor taste for me to say so, but that day cannot come too soon.”

Josie lifts a perfectly shaped eyebrow and gives Castiel an impish little smirk, but does not say anything, for at that moment a servant rings a bell, signaling supper.

Castiel stands and offers his elbow to Josie, who graciously accepts his offer. She leads them to an intimate dining room that is elaborate in its decor, despite the small space. The gaslights are set dim and it makes for a comfortable yet elegant ambiance. Castiel hopes to be invited back so he may see what else the estate holds. The formal dining hall must truly be a sight!

Supper is seven courses, something Castiel is used to. Whenever Kelso has a guest, it is always elaborately planned by the man-cook, and Josie’s own servants are certainly not lacking in their duties. They serve all the best fare, and Castiel sets into his meal with as much gusto as he can and still look the part of a civilized man.

They speak of small and unimportant things while they eat--laughing, smiling, and sharing looks that heat Castiel’s belly--even more so than the soup with the hot African spices (though he takes note to ask for her man-cook to share the recipe with Kelso’s; it is a flavour he would like on his tongue again).

When supper is finished, they retreat back to the parlour and drink absinthe which Josie prepares herself. Castiel has not tried the stuff yet, but is quite eager to taste the thing poems and odes are made for. The crystal water dispenser is a beautiful piece, and Castiel is enraptured as each droplet slowly falls upon the sugar cubes, the light shining from each one like little jewels. The whole process is magical, and Castiel is mesmerized by the way Josie is precise and balletic in all her motions. He wishes to do this every night.

Castiel isn’t certain that it is entirely seemly for a lady of such status to be drinking the stuff in company, but Castiel can see no fault in anything Josie does. So he crushes that silly thought as he smiles and takes the crystal goblet from her, slender fingers brushing against his as the exchange is made.

When he takes his first sip, he gasps in astonishment. The licorice flavor is intense, but nothing like the hard comfits his father had favoured. Castiel had never cared much for the candies, but this… This is magnificent! Josie laughs like the tinkling of bells in a cool summer breeze.

“I take it you have never partaken. Well, my dear, you are in for a treat!” Josie pours her own drink, then sits on the chaise next to Castiel, her thigh pressed firmly against his own. 

When Castiel shifts his body to better face her, their faces are so very close, and he can see that she has no imperfections--no pockmarks or scars, or pimples to mar her flawless complexion. It would take little to close the distance and kiss her, but Castiel is firmly resolved to be the gentleman. If she wishes for a kiss, he will let her do so, and kiss back with fervor, but for now, he will simply savor the closeness.

“No. I have never tried the stuff. But the flavour is remarkable! I enjoy the bitter bite to it. It is subtle, but it is there.”

“That is the wormwood you taste. Such a wonderful herb. If dosed appropriately it can help with all manners of ailments--fever, melancholia, muscle pain. It can even help regulate your shit, if that is an issue you face!”

Castiel laughs in surprise. It is refreshing to sit in the company of a woman who is not trying to keep up the appearances so forced upon those of their station. His mother would have scolded her, no doubt, for bringing up such a thing as bowels! And such language! Castiel thinks he may be falling in love with Josie. She is perfect.

“Duly noted! How do you know such things?”

“Oh, I have made friends with a Chinese herbalist. If you ask me, they know far more than these European scoundrels that play at being doctors. I only use Eastern medicine when I have an ailment and take supplements that prevent many common things.”

“I would love to learn more of such things! Perhaps next time Kelso is away, I could come back and learn a thing or two from you. I’m afraid being fluent in Latin and French and knowing the full lineage and all the details of the royal families will not get me very far in life--but those are the things I have been taught.”

“I would love to teach you. And I can show you much more than Chinese medicine.” Josie lifts a delicate hand to Castiel’s face and slowly runs her thumb across Castiel’s bottom lip. He shivers and feels his heart pick up a notch, certain that she is going to kiss him at any moment. “Why should you wait for Kelso to be away? I shall speak to him and arrange for you to stay here some nights.”

Castiel feels sudden trepidation. He does not want this lovely creature having to do business transactions with his grandsire. Unless she is one of those who have dealt with him in the past. Perhaps her late husband was one of those who took young men on a bargain to do things to their unwilling flesh. He is suddenly angry and turns his head away from her touch. His voice is laced with bitterness. “He will require payment. But perhaps you already knew that.”

Josie’s fingers dig into his chin as she turns his head to look her in the eyes. Her grip is surprisingly strong for one so delicate. She looks absolutely horrified and angry, and somehow the ugly expression does nothing to diminish her beauty. “Has the man sold you?”

Castiel averts his gaze. “Yes.” He is not sure why he tells her this. If her intentions are truly good, then it is such a shameful thing that has happened to him that he is certain her interest will wane. “Only to one man so far, but he shows me off to many. And it has been quite horrible each time I am at this fellow’s estate. I am terrified for the day that another of his associates has the pleasure of my time. I at least know what to expect with Arthur.”

Josie pulls him in to rest his head upon her bosom, and wraps her arms around his shoulder and neck so she may play softly with the hair at the back of his head. It is comforting and safe in a way he has never felt, and it does not take long before he is breaking down and sobbing into the soft fabric of her gown. 

He is not sure how it happens, but she manages to coax all of the sick details from him, and by the end of the night, Castiel is exhausted from the onslaught of emotions. He is also highly mortified that he admits to liking the treatment of his body in some strange and deranged way. Before he departs for his own bedroom, Josie asks him a final question. “Tell me, Castiel. What is Lord Kelso’s favorite treat?”

He wipes away the last of his tears and laughs. “He has a fondness for Turkish Delight and hoards them most covetously. My hands were nearly broken when he caught me trying to sneak one when I was a child. Why do you ask?”

Josie smiles fondly at him and winks. “All your troubles will soon be over.”

Castiel trembles at the implications--would Josie lace the treats and do murder for him? He isn’t sure he deserves such a reward, for he has been nothing but mischievous in his youth, and a sniveling coward as an adult. But he can do nothing more than embrace her so tightly that it nearly takes her breath. When he is finally home and lying awake in his bed, staring up at the ceiling in thought, Castiel realizes that he is hopeful for the first time since he learned of his parents’ deaths.

\---

Lord Kelso returns home two days later from his business in Leeds and is surprised by a visit from the widow Sands. He had never cared for the woman, for she was nothing more than a willful chit, ever disobedient to her good husband. He hardly saw her as better than a common street girl--it was only her money that provided her with station, and had nothing to do with character. She truly did not belong in such an exclusive neighborhood. She should be moved to one of those quasi-fashionable places and laughed at by the rest of high society for her most welcome downfall. But she is here now, sullying his office with a beautiful smile that even he cannot deny is quite charming.

“I have made too many Turkish Delights, Lord Kelso. We have not spoken since my husband has expired, and I thought to come and send greeting and goodwill to you and your house.”

Lord Kelso accepts the treats with little more than a polite thanks and she shortly thereafter takes her leave. They are quite delicious--Kelso grudgingly admits that they are some of the most wonderful Turkish Delights he has tried. The tang of the citrus is perfectly balanced with the sweet, and there is an underlying flavour that he cannot pinpoint but pulls everything together in a way that he has not tasted before. He knows it is overly indulgent to do so, yet he can’t help but eat the lot in one sitting.

\---

Twelve hours later, the great Lord Kelso dies in his sleep. When the doctors investigate, they claim that his heart gave out. Similar in fate to that of Josie’s late husband. 

Castiel rejoices and cannot find it within himself to even pretend to be saddened by it and finds that he is most assuredly in love with Miss Sands for whatever part she may have played in Kelso’s demise.


	5. Chapter 5

Castiel now finds himself as the sole owner of not only his parents' various estates, but Lord Alistair Kelso’s, as well. It is a wondrous feeling to be recognized as the man he is and no longer treated as if he is still in his infancy. His late cousin Anabel had been declared of the majority when she was but 14, after all. And Castiel had always been much more mature than she, despite his mischievous nature. While Castiel still feels bitter resentment that his family tried to keep him as a child for so long, he is now in a state of fond merriment to be considered an adult. 

Castiel isn’t certain what he should do first, but in the end, he decides to call on Josie and get her opinion. He has the feeling that she is very well equipped to make his life quite exciting, should she wish to keep him around. And so he finds himself at her door, waiting for the fair creature to welcome him in.

It is the same butler who greets him, and he leads him to the parlour with a small incline of his head. “Wait here, please, sir, and I shall notify the misses that you are here.” Castiel makes himself comfortable on the same chaise he had lounged upon the last visit and eagerly awaits Josie with enthusiasm that he can hardly contain.

When she appears a short time later, Castiel notes that she is yet clad in all black, but her gown is of the most exquisite cut and hugs her curves with the perfection only a master seamster can attain. She has applied a deep crimson to her pouty lips and wears a rouge about her cheeks in French fashion--something that is still bordering on scandalous here in England--and Castiel finds that it brings out her beauty tenfold.

Castiel leaps up from his place on the chaise and grabs both of her hands. “I have the most happy news! Kelso is passed. Several days ago his heart suddenly gave out, and I find myself without master. If you had any hand in this timely demise, I owe you my life and the most sincerest of thanks.”

Josie simply smiles at this, neither confirming nor denying the implication that she had poisoned the man. “That is wonderful to hear. He was no good, and I cannot say that I am grieved to hear of his passing.”

“Celebrate with me. I should like to go out, but I find that I have been far too sheltered to know what is what, and what is of good taste. I trust your judgement of these things. Will you accept?”

Josie leans in and places the ghost of a kiss upon his cheek, careful not to smudge her red lips. “Of course. I know just the thing. We’ll make a night of it!”

\---

Two hours later, Josie and Castiel are in a carriage taking them away from Arlington Street and into the heart of an adventure that Castiel has yet to determine the nature of. He is quite thrilled and enjoys the mystery of it all, for Josie has not been forthcoming as to where she is taking him yet.

The carriage stops in an unassuming area. Castiel had thought Josie would take him to a place in some exclusive neighborhood or another, but this place is in a standard well-to-do shopping district, and though the area is not seedy, it hardly fits with their most fashionable attire. 

Josie leads them to a solid wooden door with no signage to indicate what the shop holds within, then turns her head to speak as she holds a gloved fist up to the door, ready to knock. “I hope not to offend your sensibilities, but I take you for a creature who should not shy from something hidden away from the ordinary. Are you prepared to plunge into the strange and wonderfully dark side of London with me?”

Castiel practically buzzes with his excitement. “Oh, yes, Lady. I am the picture of curiosity, and I eagerly await the night's fare.”

Josie smiles then raps her knuckles against the door--two slow knocks, a pause, then three more in rapid succession. A moment later, a handsome young man that looks to be of Japanese descent opens the doors wide and greets them. 

“Ah! Baroness Sands! Come! We are always most pleased to be graced by your presence.” Baroness! Castiel’s eyes widen as he takes Josie in. Her late husband must have been newly appointed to the title, for he knows the full rank and lineage of all the noble houses--and though the barons are of the lowest rank, she is noble nonetheless. He suddenly feels a great boor for unloading all of his problems on her, even though she seems not to mind. He is glad for the doorman’s unfamiliarity with English addresses, for otherwise, Castiel might have never learned this.

The young man bows deeply then leads them behind a curtain and into a strange room filled with little spaces partitioned away with sheer and colorful scarves that look to be saris and silken drapes of fabric. It reminds Castiel of the illustration he once saw of a Turkish harem, bright blues and oranges and reds all clashing together in the most wonderful way. Castiel is sure he has never seen so much color in his life. They are led into a private space enclosed with a brilliant teal drape that has the most elaborate of beading. What he sees within the space is not what he expected. There is no traditional seating, but layers of colorful rugs and pillows, all arranged for maximum lounging comfort. The curtain only shelters them from the main traffic of the room and there is one side of their space that is fully exposed. In front of the open section, there is a perfect view of a stage.

Ah, so they are to watch a show. Castiel smiles at his surroundings then helps Josie to sit and arrange herself on the plush rugs, then seats himself next to her.

“I was to the theatre once as a child, but nothing so intimate as this. I must say that I am quite thrilled to see what is performed here tonight.” He looks over to Josie who is smiling coyly at him from beneath her lashes; a most positively impish expression adorns her face.

“I think you shall not be disappointed, though perhaps it will not be what you expect.”

Before Castiel can respond or think too closely on her words, a woman in bejeweled costume--with an exposed midriff, no less!--comes to hand them both a goblet of mulled wine. She looks to have some sort of elaborate vinework tattoo across her torso that is hidden only slightly by her scant outfit of draped scarves. She looks to blend in well with the partitioned seating. He has never seen a tattoo before, though he knows that many of the seamen who come in from the docks have them in plenty. He decides that he quite likes it and tells the woman so.

“Your artwork is divine, lady.” She smiles at this, but does not speak, then retreats to deliver wine to other patrons of the lounge/theatre--Castiel is not sure what to call it!

A sudden wicked thought comes to Castiel and he cannot hold it back. “Tell me Josie, do you have any tattoos? I cannot decide if it would enhance your beauty or deter from your perfect complexion.”

Josie laughs. “Oh, now that is something that you will simply have to wait to find out!”

They enjoy simple conversation and trade jabs while sipping their wine. Castiel finds that Josie truly has a quick and clever wit and he is smitten all the more for it. 

Refills are quickly had, and Castiel is feeling half shot by the time a wonderful yet eerie melody begins to play. Another young tattooed woman is sitting near the stage playing at a hammered dulcimer, and next to her is a young man sat with a viola da gamba. He would never have thought to combine the two instruments, but it makes for the most exquisite sounds. The tune is so familiar, but Castiel cannot put his finger on what it is.

And then a small group of people slowly dance onto the stage, elaborately tattooed men and women alike. The women all wear sari’s of various colours and the men all have turbans and wear the sashes of Indian nobility, but the shocking thing is that they are all otherwise in the nude--their elegant scarves doing little to hide their god-given features. And then they begin to sing, and Castiel suddenly recognises what he hears. It is Lakme by Delibes, his late mother’s favorite opera--one that he heard her sing to herself many times in the past. (It is one of the very few good memories he has of the woman.) The decor of the place suddenly makes sense. He sits forward, enraptured.

It is a story of British colonialism in India, and two people who fall in love that truly shouldn’t. It is reminiscent of Romeo and Juliet in a way, though Castiel much prefers this version of the star-crossed lovers. When Lakme meets the British soldier and falls in love, Castiel nearly looks away in shock, for the two singers fully shed their scant coverings and pantomime a very intimate moment there on stage. He can only assume they do not truly copulate for all to see, for their voices still sing out strong as ever. And while Castiel has not truly had sex, he has been involved in acts that can only leave one breathless--he imagines trying to sing while Arthur did his strange acts upon his body and has to giggle into his hand. No, it must be acting on the singer's parts.

Castiel cannot deny his arousal in the moment. The atmosphere, all the colors, and some sweet-smelling incense filling his nose all add to the intimacy of what he is witnessing. Josie stirs beside him, and he wonders if she, too, is feeling it. But Castiel cannot look away, even when he feels her hand slide across his thigh.

Castiel is guided to lean back against the rugs and pillows and he only then tears his eyes away from the singers to look questioningly at Josie. She shushes him with a soothing gesture as her nimble fingers work to undo the buttons of his trousers. He lifts his hips slightly as she slides the fabric down his thighs, leaving his arousal quite clearly exposed to the air. 

Castiel gasps and throws his head back, eyes squeezed shut, as she begins working him over with her hands. Josie whispers into his ear, “Hush now, and watch the show. And take this pleasure as the gift it is.” She turns her face back to the stage to watch as the singers writhe and undulate in their carnal dance, her hands caressing ceaselessly as Castiel pants, eyes half-lidded and unfocused.

He focuses his eyes upon the show, but feels every slight motion of Josie’s hands. He is overloaded with a cacophony of sensations and it is so much pleasure to each and every one of his senses that it does not take more than a minute for him to find his release. Castiel half expects Josie to continue, to make him ache with overstimulation, but she slowly withdraws her hands, and only touches him again to clean up his spill and tuck him back into his trousers. It seems everything she does makes him love her a little bit more.

Castiel takes a moment to gather his wits, but when he finally moves in to reciprocate, Josie politely declines the favour and instead curls into his side, humming along with the songs in a rich, sweet voice. Castiel is only mildly disappointed, for he would love nothing more than to have her laid out before him, but he is content all the same. 

By the time the opera has come to its conclusion, Castiel is feeling drunk and adventurous (His wine had been refilled whenever it began to run low) and simply does not wish for their evening to end. Josie seems to be of the same mind, for when they leave, stopping only to relieve themselves in the theatre’s indoor dunny, Josie instructs their carman to take them to another address Castiel does not recognise--one that is nowhere near to Arlington Street.

He isn’t sure how the evening could be topped--nude opera!--but he has faith that Josie will not disappoint. They make small talk as they travel and Castiel assures her that that had been the single best experience of his life. Josie hums--a little knowing sound--before she speaks. “I thought I had read you correctly; I am pleased to see that my intuition was so spot on. I do believe our next stop shall open your mind further, should you wish to continue the night.”

Castiel does. He wishes to do these things every night. “Oh, yes. I most assuredly will not miss out on whatever you have planned next!”

When the coach pulls up at Pall Mall--a splendid street full of various clubhouses--Castiel’s curiosity is piqued. He knows that the clubs in this part are mostly literary or political, and primarily gentlemen's clubs, so what Josie has up her sleeves, Castiel can only speculate. 

They approach a building near the admiralty arch--one with a series of elaborately chiseled grotesques above the door--and again, Josie makes a knock that has a defined pattern to it. It occurs to Castiel that perhaps the door shall not be opened if the knock is not correct. Josie looks to him and smiles as they wait, and Castiel is certain he will never get over her beauty.

The door is opened for them promptly, and they are let within by a very unassuming man--likely dressed so as to not take away from the lavish appearance of the patrons gathered around the elaborately carved, wooden tables, all deep in various discussions. 

“These are the people to know if you should like to be in attendance to all of the best events. The members of this club are of the upper crust of society, yet share a deep love of the strange and deviant. Before we proceed, the one thing you must promise is to never speak of who you have seen here tonight, for they must behave as the prim and proper gentlemen society sees them as when not behind these closed doors. As will your identity will remain secret when you leave.”

Castiel is quick to agree. “Oh, most certainly. I will keep it between us.” 

He is again hounded by the thought that Josie does not belong here. While her personality surely fits, she is a woman, and Castiel had learned somewhere that clubhouses are for gentlemen. So how is it that a lady of noble title comes to be in the presence of such men? Castiel’s eyes scan the room and takes note that, no, there are no other women here. 

He does not speak his thoughts but lets Josie lead him by the hand to a pair of fine-looking fellows deep in conversation. The one whose face he can see is quite the tallest man he has laid eyes upon and has dashing, sharp features. The other--who presents his most delightful posteriors in Castiel’s direction--is shorter, but not by much. He still seems of a much greater height than Castiel--who has never been considered short by any means. He practically towered over Arthur.

The tall man sees Josie approach and pauses his conversation, eyes lighting up--as Castiel is sure happens to all who sight Miss Sands. “Josie! You have not graced us with your presence for far too long!” He breaks away from the other man to embrace her warmly, and Castiel is left standing awkwardly at her side. 

The other, shorter man turns his head with a smile, and Castiel is taken quite by surprise. He has much softer features than the handsome giant, rounder of face, and almost feminine in his flawless beauty. He is suddenly torn between whether he or Josie is truly more stunning.

Castiel catches himself staring and barely recognises when Josie makes introductions. “Castiel, these are the Winchesters. Samuel,” she motions first at the taller of the two, then to the Adonis, “and Dean.” She drapes her arm around Castiel’s shoulder and pulls him tight with a quick affectionate squeeze. “And this is Castiel.”

Samuel speaks first. “Ah! This must be Kelso’s ward that you told us all about! It is such a pleasure to make your acquaintance.” He holds out a hand for Castiel to shake, and he does so, but he is hardly able to pull his eyes away from Dean, who seems to be staring back just as hard.

“Yes, but no. He is no ward, for Lord Kelso has met his end quite suddenly. I’m afraid he has perished from a failed heart. Mr. Gray is his own man with his own fortune.” Josie winks at him, knowing that it is such a happy event for him, and he suspects all over again that she must have laced Kelso’s treats. He smiles warmly at the good luck he has found in her friendship.

Dean blinks his eyes several times, then seems to come back from whatever trance Castiel had held him in, and turns his eyes to Josie. “But where are my manners. Josie, you look divine, as always.” He leans in to kiss her cheek as she laughs.

“Manners! Dean, I’m surprised you even know the word. But your lack thereof is quite understandable. Our Castiel here is quite the fetching man, is he not?”

“Quite.” Dean turns his eyes back to Castiel, and Castiel can feel the crimson creeping up his cheeks and over his ears. Dean has a gaze that is quite intense. 

Josie lets out a small laugh at Castiel’s sudden bashfulness. “Get used to the attention, Castiel. Now that you are a ward to no man, but fully your own creature, you will be getting quite the admiration from women and men alike, I can imagine.”

Castiel feels suddenly uneasy. Having the attention of Josie and Dean is something Castiel would never dismiss as unwanted, but the attention of so many? He cannot fathom that it is something that should be pleasant. “I think I’ve had quite enough attention these days.” He gives a pointed look to Josie, and her kind eyes seem to know what he is thinking.

“My sweet man, you have me misunderstood. All the attention you receive in this circle will be yours to accept or deny. You will always have your own will in the matter. You are a master here, as are all the men who attend this club.”

Castiel nods his head and looks around the room, taking in all of the finely dressed gentlemen in various animated conversations. There is laughter and overall good cheer to the place. Castiel is still unsure, but his uneasy mind is lightened knowing he will not have to be put into such a submissive position again unwanted. He idly wonders if Arthur is a member of the club and if he should have to look upon the man again.

Josie has referred again to the club as a gentleman’s place--just as Castiel had assumed it was--and the thought occurs to him, again, that she is in strange company, being a lady of her status. “A gentleman’s club, Josie. How is it that you have been accepted? I am all for suffrage and equality, but I know most dandy sorts are not of that thinking.”

Dean snorts a rude sort of laugh and speaks up before Josie can respond. “I am sure you will soon find that Josie is no lady! We have taken measure, and I am humbled to admit that her cock is larger than mine!”

Josie gives Dean an impish look at the comment, but does not respond to it and simply shrugs at Castiel. Castiel can only assume that the comment was metaphor claiming Josie to be on par with the thinking of the men here, though it does nothing to answer his question.

Samuel guffaws, “And the same can be said true of the whole of London!” Dean puts on a face of mock outrage at the jab, but the smile never leaves his eyes. Did Samuel just insinuate that Dean has a small member? He decides that he should make certain Dean knows that it is not something Castiel would ever mock if it is true. He realizes that he has already decided he should like to have Dean exposed and writhing beneath him, and his mouth spits out words before he can stop himself.

“Dean, I assure you that nothing of that sort is of importance to me. I think your form is absolute perfection as it is.” He is instantly mortified at his admission, but the earlier staring was already prelude to such an announcement, so he tries to hold his embarrassment in check.

“Oh, look at that! Defending my honour!” Dean wraps an arm around Castiel’s shoulders and leads him away from the others so they may speak in private. Castiel eyes Josie as they walk away, and she gives him a reassuring smile, then goes deep into conversation with Samuel, the two looking in fine spirits to have the conversation to themselves. 

“Tell me, Cas. Have you known Josephine for long? She has only begun to mention you, but that means little, as she tends to hoard beautiful things to herself.”

“Beautiful?” Castiel blinks up at Dean, stomach tumbling in summersaults. He isn’t sure why he is so nervous, for it seems to be a sure thing that he could have Dean beneath him if he but asks.

“Oh, yes.” Dean leans in to whisper, his plush lips grazing the shell of Castiel’s ear, and his voice is such a low rumble of sultry perfection that Castiel can feel his whole body begin to tingle with anticipation. “The things I could do to you--take you apart and put you back together--and have you shaking and screaming out your pleasure.” 

Castiel isn’t sure how to respond, but he wants to scream out “yes” at the top of his lungs. He must look the picture of perplexity, though, for Dean takes a small step back, his eyes wide and contrite, and says quickly, “I am truly sorry if I have overstepped my bounds. If you are not comfortable with any of this, then you are not beholden to stay or join us again. I just ask that you keep this club to yourself for the sake of its members.” 

Castiel says nothing, gobsmacked by the whole exchange, and hasn’t a clue what to do or say. This whole sort of affair is new to him, and he doesn’t wish to bungle it with some misstep. But Dean takes his silence for dismissal and turns to walk back to Josie and Samuel. Before Dean can fully take a step away, Castiel stops thinking and cries out, “Wait!” and pulls Dean back to him by his shirtsleeve. He fumbles forward and plants his lips upon Dean’s, nearly missing the man’s mouth entirely. It is a hurried and panicked thing, but surely it gets the point across.

Castiel realizes he just kissed another man in front of the genteel of London. He takes a panicked look around at all the men in the club, and while it seems that no one has paid much mind to the interaction--other than a few smirks directed at his darting eyes--he is still suddenly nervous that there will soon be an outcry to get him out of their club for such behaviour. He looks at the floor and is about to apologize when Dean kisses him back. It is a slow and soft thing, and anything but proper. Castiel feels his trepidation melting away with each brush of Dean’s tongue and caress of his fingers upon his neck. 

When Dean pulls away, the man is looking as lost in their little moment as Castiel feels. He wants, needs--deep in his chest, in his soul--and he knows he has not felt this type of hunger before, even with Josie. He wonders what that makes him, that a pretty man should make him feel what the most beautiful woman he has seen cannot. He knows he is deeply in love with Josie, but perhaps she is of the mind to let his lips wander. After all, she did bring him to this club full of--what did she call it? The strange and deviant?

“I am hosting a show at one of my galleries. Please tell me you will come? I must see you again.” Dean offers his elbow for Castiel to take, and he accepts the feminine role with a small laugh as Dean escorts him back to Josie and Samuel.

Dean’s sudden gentlemanliness is a surprise to Castiel. After he was told that Dean would like to do the most vulgar things to his body, and after a most delicious kiss that spoke of the things they could do to each other, he is now the picture of polite courtship. He is a strange and wonderful creature that Castiel can’t wait to know. 

“I would love to attend. Tell me a time and place and I will be there.”

They have reached the other two, and Josie speaks in a happy tone, “Oh, good! I was going to usher you there, but it seems you have already received invite. I’m so pleased to see that you have got on so well.”

Castiel gives Josie a small, apologetic smile. She truly does seem to wish him to spend time with Dean, but he cannot help but feel guilty. She looks to understand his expression quite well, for she continues in a quiet, reassuring tone. “You know, my sweet, you could have any man in this room, or any of their wives, and none would be upset or shun you. Here, we simply chase pleasure, wherever that may lie.”

“Oh.“ Castiel can think of nothing more clever to say. A society of libertines. How peculiar and free these people must be, and Castiel thinks he may well belong here, even as inexperienced as he is. He will have to see what affairs these men get up to, and perhaps he will find himself at home in the midst of their hedonistic merriment. 

He still wonders how Josie fits into it all.


	6. Chapter 6

Over the next several days Josie takes Castiel out to a variety of places--everything from the ordinary to the extremely bizarre. It seems she is of eclectic taste, and Castiel fairly appreciates the variety and spice she has brought to his life. 

In the afternoon she takes him to a little French cafe in the Kentish countryside, and in the evening it is full on vaudeville of such low class that Castiel is both disgusted and thrilled at the same time. But he finds that he quite likes the disgust--it is not a stomach-churning thing, but rather captivating and eye-opening.

The following day they visit a waxworks and see replicas of the Marquis de Sade and his strange practices. He thinks he should be rather put off at seeing the wax figures tied down and whipped, but instead it excites something in his belly. The strong and proud figure of de Sade towering over his victims--it is superbly erotic, and Castiel imagines Josie and Dean in their places. He has to quickly look away lest his excitement show through his trousers. He does not wish to embarrass Josie with his lack of control in this matter. But she either does not notice or simply does not mind, for they continue on with their day as planned.

The next stop is to be measured for new formal wear. As Josie tells it, there will be a masquerade hosted by Lord McLeod in one week’s time, and they must look their very best. Castiel is fit for a costume that only one as dashing as the devil himself might wear, and he is taken by surprise at how wickedly dapper his appearance is. And this is only the showpiece! The fabrics Josie has chosen for his full suit will surely make men and women alike sell their souls to have the chance to be near him.

Josie is not fit with a showpiece but has given a design directly to the seamster, one that Castiel is not privileged to see. “I assure you, I never let anyone see before I wear a new gown, regardless of how charming he or she may be.”

After the day has ended and Josie has given him quite the working over in the carriage ride home, Castiel finds himself laid out in his bed, too excited to sleep. He thinks over the last couple days of events with Josie and knows that he is in deep with her. But his true excitement is that he will be attending Dean’s gallery tomorrow, and he fairly cannot wait to see the man again. 

As Josie tells it, Dean does not simply own an art gallery. He has painted the prized portraits of many elites in England, and it is his own art that will grace the walls of the place. But it is his secret art, the things that he saves only for the select few--those from the libertine’s clubhouse and similar-minded individuals. Castiel falls asleep wondering what will be in store for the next day. 

\---

When Castiel awakes the next afternoon, he spends an inordinate amount of time on his grooming. His valet helps him into his very best clothes and makes sure his hair is parted just so. 

The grand thing about sleeping past noon tea is that he does not have to wait long before he is meeting Josie out at the coach they will share to Dean’s event. Josie has her own carman take them, for he already knows the place well and will need no instruction. Castiel is nervous excitement the whole time, and Josie calms his nerves with an intimate caress. He does not release, however, for he does not wish to sully his good looks, and it would not do well to walk into a private event such as this looking as if he has been freshly fucked. Or perhaps it would be quite appropriate, given the nature of the anticipated patrons this evening. 

Castiel lets out a small huff of a laugh but does not respond to Josie’s questioning brow, for the carman has pulled to a stop outside of an elegant looking building with finely chiseled stone figures gracing its facade. He had not paid much mind to where they were riding and gives a small whistle through his teeth when he realizes they are within the heart of Piccadilly. For Dean to own property here--as fashionably exclusive as Arlington street is, Picadilly is the pinnacle of the ultra-exclusive. He is quite surprised he has not heard the Winchester name yet, even as sheltered away as his parents had him.

When they are let within, it is not what Castiel was expecting. The main room is filled with art created by all of the masters of the craft, dating back to the 1500s. There are originals of Da Vinci and Michaelangelo, Vermeer, Benjamin West, and many others that Castiel does not recognise. This must be where Dean hosts gatherings of a more proper sort--the type which would flaunt his wealth and ability to curate such coveted works of art. Castiel had thought to be bombarded immediately by scandalous images, but is not disappointed to be allowed to witness these wonderful pieces.

Josie wanders slowly by his side from piece to piece, listening as Castiel exclaims at each one--at how marvelous it is to see such perfect history in front of his eyes. Most of the paintings he has within his own estates are things that have been commissioned by his family from modern artists. And while they are quite lovely, they are nothing compared to the mastery he sees before him. He wonders what Dean’s art will look like. 

After a thorough investigation of each work displayed in the grand room, Josie leads Castiel through a side corridor that has a few more modern pieces adorning it’s walls, though these are so lifelike that Castiel feels as if he is looking at the scenes himself and not at a painting at all! 

“Come Castiel. There will be more of this lot within! And you will see the true artistry of Dean Winchester.” 

Castiel gasps. “Dean has painted these? How is it possible? It is like photographs in their realism! But if only a photograph could truly capture such detail.”

“Oh yes. He is easily the best painter the world has seen yet!”

Castiel is astounded and has never felt such awe for another human in his life. “He must have sold his soul for this mastery.”

Josie laughs, “Something like that. Come.”

Castiel is led to the back of the hallway to a door that has a sign hanging from it that says, “Private Event.” There is a finely dressed butler standing at the door who smiles as they approach. “Lady Sands, Lord Gray,” he inclines his head at each of them, then opens the door to a veritable orgy of flesh, blood, and depravity.

Each painting seems to reach out from their canvas, wanting to caress at Castiel’s very soul. His breath is taken by the violence and beauty juxtaposed in each image. There is nowhere he turns where he isn’t uncertain: is it still life models, or a true painting? He wants to reach out and touch, to be sure that what he sees is truly nothing more than paint and canvas.

Castiel feels faint, for the experience is so overwhelming to him. He has never felt more alive--nor terrified--than he has in the midst of Dean’s work. He is trembling by the time Dean approaches to welcome them.

But Castiel ignores the man--and it is not intentional--when he is greeted. He can not stop turning in circles, his eyes roaming everywhere, his heart pounding in his chest. He feels like he has been taken away into some realm of untold possibilities, where magic rules over the mundane and all acts carnal and unseemly take precedence over the chastity and virtue of their age.

A hand on his shoulder brings him out of his daze, and Castiel now sees that Dean is next to him, a look of pride and profound delight etched across his magnificent features. Castiel must reach out a hand and touch the man’s face to be sure that he is real and not some figment induced by the effects of the place. He smiles and kisses Castiel’s fingertips as they brush across his lips.

Josie speaks to him with a laugh in her voice. “You seem overwrought. It was so for me, too, the first time I saw such a thing as Dean can create. And each time it is no less awesome, though you will soon become accustomed, and not feel so disoriented by the exactness of the paint.” When Castiel looks to her, he can see in her eyes that she too is in complete awe of what she sees around her.

“Cas, if you would like to choose, you may take a piece home with you. Any one you like best.”

Castiel turns his eyes back to Dean and realizes his hand still cups his face as if it has a will of its own and does not wish to lose contact with such perfection. He locks eyes with Dean before boldly stating, “The masterpiece I see before me is the one I like best.”

Dean laughs at that. “Then you shall take me home when the evening is finished. Though you may also take from the gallery.” Dean turns to Josie before continuing. “If it is quite all right with the Lady?”

Josie beams at the two of them. “Oh, by all means!” She kisses each of them on the cheek, then walks around to investigate the art more closely. And though she seems unaffected by the exchange, Castiel worries after her heart. They have become quite close and share a deep fondness of one another. 

“Do not worry for Josephine. She and I have shared all things for many hundreds of years.” Dean clears his throat at the strange look that Castiel directs at him. “Well, it does seem like such a long time, but we have indeed been companions since I can recall.”

Castiel smiles and leans in closer. “I was only going to say that you look remarkably spry for one so aged.”

“As you shall soon find out, I am sure.” Dean gives him a soft kiss, then pulls him along the room. “Let us find you an image to hang upon your own walls.”

Castiel is again overwhelmed by it all. There is so much to look at, and so many lewd things depicted that he had never even dreamt of. But it does not take long for him to see what he most wants to proudly display in his personal bedroom. 

It is a young couple, deep in the throes. They fornicate upon a pile of bones, some of which impale the two in various places, and all is covered in a fine mist of gore. He can almost see them writhing in their fit, undulating in and out of one another. It is both disturbing and brilliant, and leaves Castiel with a feeling in his chest that he cannot describe. Powerful, hungry, but something else entirely. 

When Castiel stops at the painting, Dean whispers in his ear. “It is yours. But I ask a favour in return. I wish for you to sit for me so I may immortalize your beauty.”

Castiel is shocked by the request. “Me? I would be honoured, but surely there are more fitting subjects. I am curious, in truth, and wish to do many of these things you depict so wildly. But I know nothing of it in reality.”

Dean presses up impossibly close to him, their bodies seeming to fit perfectly to each other, molding into one another's curves. “A simple portrait to start, but I can teach you the rest. I want to. Please, say yes.”

Looking into Dean’s eyes, Castiel is entranced and helpless against the pull he feels towards him. He can only say one thing. “Yes.”

\---

When the last of the genteel leave the gallery--including Josie, who leaves with a young and handsome couple with a devilish twinkle in her eye--Dean gathers two servants to load Castiel’s painting onto a wagon to be delivered and hung this very night. And while other works have been sold, those will be dealt with and delivered on the morrow.

Castiel is almost hesitant to leave. While he is excited to see his new work of art hung prominently in his bedroom, and equally as excited to have Dean himself in that room, he feels a tug to keep him close to the display that is laid out before him. He is significantly less dazed by the whole arrangement now, but it is no less overwhelming. Dean has mastered the art of a truly lifelike and three-dimensional display. There is nowhere he turns where it does not feel as if he is within the scenes being depicted before him. His breath still catches as he turns and can fairly feel the fingertips of a reaching hand brushing against his cheek. Truly amazing.

But he must quit the place eventually, and Dean has his painting loaded, waiting for Castiel to join him in the main hall. And so Castiel goes to Dean with stars in his eyes and locks their hands tightly together, almost believing that if he does not feel the contact of Dean’s skin, the man will surely turn to mist and become only a figment. A man of such beauty and talent could not possibly be real. 

“I’ve never seen any affected so profoundly. Your awe inspires me to create even greater works. And I would have you at the center of it all.”

Castiel blinks at the man. It seems Dean is just as drawn to him as he is to Dean, and Castiel cannot quite fathom it, so astoundingly unbelievable as it all is. “I scarcely feel as if any of this is real. Josie, you, this society you belong too… your art. It’s like I’m being woken up from a very long and boring dream, yet I’m still held in that borderland state where nothing quite seems true.”

Dean pulls him by the hand out to the waiting coach and says nothing in response, but Castiel can catch the slight downcast of his eyes and the smile that graces his plump lips, as if the man is bashful at his praise. He does not seem the sort to be shy, but perhaps Dean’s outgoing personality is simply a cover for something more graceful and subdued deep within.

The wagon with the painting is loaded and ready to follow. As the coach he and Dean ride in takes off, he can hear the groan of the large wooden wheels behind them grumble as it starts the trek homewards. Other than the creak of the wagon, there is very little sound. He and Dean do not speak, but exchange small looks at one another that speak volumes. It seems there is no need for words, for Castiel knows precisely what is to happen.

Before they even make it halfway to Arlington Street, Dean is upon him, kissing and moving his hands freely about Castiel’s body. Castiel’s response is immediate, and pulls Dean over him so the man is draped across his torso, Dean’s thighs straddling his hips quite snugly. The coach is a large one, but it is still cramped within. Castiel cannot wait for the ride to be over so they may sprawl out properly on his massive bed.

Castiel lets out a moan as Dean begins moving his hips, rubbing their members together through the thick layer of their trousers. Castiel feels as if he should feel some small bit of trepidation, as though he should be waiting for the painful parts to begin, but the sense of danger and wrong never comes to him. He simply enjoys the motions Dean’s body makes on top of him, and knows that even should the pain come, Dean is not one to be afraid of.

The coach slows to a crawl as the horses are reigned in, and Castiel knows they have arrived. Dean and himself are both a shambles when they separate from one another--hair wild, cravats undone and their fine linens in a state of wrinkled disarray. What should the servants think of this! Though he supposes it should not matter. They are hired for both their service and discretion.

The painting is unloaded from the cart and Castiel leads the workmen up the grand stairs and into his bedroom. It was once Lord Kelso’s master suite, and the first thing Castiel did when he moved into the room was to take down the portrait of the hideous man and have it burned. There is now a bare spot on the wall where the new art should be hung. 

And once it is up, Castiel’s breath catches at sight of the scene there in his bedroom. The couple still seem to writhe and reach out for him, like they are beckoning him to crawl within the painting to join in their carnal and blood-soaked affair. He can almost hear the pile of bones creaking and snapping as they move atop it, new broken bits of bone piercing the flesh of the lovers. 

Dean’s arms wrapping around his waist pull him back into the present moment, realising that the workmen have been sent away and the two of them are now alone. He was surely entranced again by the painting, and knows that should he stare too long at it, it is an occurrence that will happen again.

\---

Castiel feels no shame nor trepidation as he is slowly stripped of his clothing and led to lie flat on his bed. He closes his eyes and listens to the sounds of Dean removing his own garments, and only dares to look up as he feels the bed dip around him. He instantly regrets not watching Dean bare himself, for the creature that crawls above him is the embodiment of perfection. Should he have been alive in the time of the Greeks, surely Adonis and Ganymede would have died from fits of pure jealousy. He would have been coveted by Zeus himself and all the gods would have been at war to gain the attention of this one man.

Castiel feels his breath being taken and is not sure if he shall ever be able to retrieve it. And when Dean gently parts Castiel’s legs to fit himself firmly where he belongs, Castiel can feel a tear of awe slide down his cheek. Dean brushes it away with the soft skin of his lips, then moves his face so he may capture Castiel’s mouth in a deep kiss. 

Everything Dean does is soft and deliberate, almost as if he knows the trauma of Castiel’s recent past and does not wish to upset the perfect affinity between them. But surely there is no way for Dean to know these things that happened with Arthur. Perhaps it is simply how Dean is--and it is not lost on Castiel how different the man is than what is shown in his works of art. Castiel half expected to be tied down and flogged and to only partially enjoy himself. But it is not so.

Dean’s mouth is warm and wet upon his own, and when the man kisses across Castiel’s body, he leaves a trail of tingling flesh in each place his lips and tongue connect with. It is almost like the electricity Arthur had used to torture him, though there is nothing unpleasant about the sensation. It is something Castiel cannot identify. He is not sure there is a human word for such a sensation, but it leaves Castiel panting for breath and clutching white-knuckled at his eiderdown, nonetheless.

Dean lifts one of Castiel’s legs and drapes it across his broad shoulders. He lets out a soft gasp and begins to wriggle about when Dean’s roaming tongue connects with the puckered flesh of his back passage. Surely such a thing cannot be sanitary! But Dean’s enthusiasm has him quickly forgetting himself and it is not long before he is moaning and working his hips in tandem with Dean’s eager tongue.

It feels like hours that Dean works him over in this fashion, though it is likely not long at all, and Castiel does not wish for the sensations to end when Dean abruptly pulls his mouth away and slides up Castiel’s torso to fit himself firmly between his thighs. There is more of the electric tingling when Dean coaxes his manhood inside of Castiel. When Arthur had used his hands upon Castiel, he had the aid of a lubricant with Chinese lettering on the jar. Dean has no such thing, but it feels as if his way is slicked. Castiel wonders if the man’s saliva is enough to ease the way. He is quite naive in these things, so he trusts Dean to do it the right way and not to leave him in any unnecessary pain or peril. 

Once Dean is firmly embedded within him, the man wastes no time and begins moving his hips. He is vigorous, but considerate. Castiel has never felt such pleasure or wonderment in his life. Every forward thrust hits a spot within Castiel that leaves him breathless, that same place where Arthur’s fingers would rub at with unmercifully cruel intentions. And while it is the same feeling that sparks each time Dean brushes against it, this is, at the same time, nothing alike. When Castiel screams, it is not for Dean to stop; when tears begin sliding down his face unchecked, it is out of pure joy and gratification; and when Castiel claws at Dean’s back, fingernails digging in enough to draw blood, it is to urge the man on.

“Harder--fuck me--Dean!”

Castiel has no idea how much time passes, but he feels as if he has the stamina to let it last forever. He needs it to last. By the time Dean finds his release deep within Castiel, he can see the first rays of sun peeking in through his curtains. He is perturbed by the level of disappointment he feels that the sensations must end--almost as if he has acquired some sudden addiction. But surely he should be tired and need to sleep the night's activities away! He feels a twinge of the nerves bite into his chest, and immediately locks his legs around Dean and pulls him in tight with his arms. It will just not do to allow the man to separate from his body at this time. 

He can hear Dean laughing softly against his neck. “It was that good, was it?”

“Please. I need more of you.”

Dean shifts in his firm embrace to kiss his lips. It is sweaty and slick and perfect. He thrusts his hips forward hard, startling a gasp out of Castiel. Despite having found his release, Dean has not withered in the slightest, and it amazes Castiel, for when he has had his own fadings, Castiel’s proud cock has made itself limp in mere moments. Dean swallows the sounds Castiel makes as he begins thrusting inside of him once more, continuing to devour his lips and tongue with his own.

Castiel feels high, like he has taken some drug that has heightened all of his senses but dumbed his mind--each movement Dean makes above him sends a rippling of the electric buzz through his body and he is screaming out his pleasure again in mere moments. 

Time passes far too quickly. He knows he should have sensations from his body telling him to attend to his basic needs--food, water, and elimination--but these signs of mortality never come. Dean must, too, be in the throes of the same magic, for he seems not to notice the passage of time either. And like Castiel, he has a stamina that is not entirely human. For all Castiel is aware, days may have passed, and though in the back of his mind he knows he should be concerned, he does not feel the pull to quit this activity with any haste.

When Dean eventually lets-go again, Castiel is still not finished and fights desperately to keep Dean on top of him. But Dean carefully holds him down and slips himself out of Castiel’s body. “Shh. You’re more tired than you think. Trust me Cas, you need food and sleep or you will not be well.”

Castiel can see the couple writhing together atop their bloody pile of bones, barely a painting at all, but a window looking out to some hellish landscape, and the sensation of  _ need--want-- _ overwhelms him. He knows he could not possibly survive the day without Dean inside of him. He must be putting up quite the struggle, for Dean climbs back on top of him--not to give him what he desires, but to hold him in place.

“Believe me. I would continue doing this until you wither and die, but that is not your purpose here--to feed some sick need. You will do great things. I have seen this, and so has Josephine. Now sleep and I shall collect the servants to make you a meal.” Dean places a hand to Castiel’s forehead and a strange feeling overcomes him. He is instantly drained of all energy and desire, and before he can say a word in response, he is dead asleep. 


	7. Chapter 7

The weekend was such a blur to Castiel that he is not entirely certain that it was all real. His memories feel false, for surely neither he nor Dean were such machines as he recalls. He feels as though he should not be able to walk or talk or do much of anything useful at all, but instead he feels invigorated--and not one sore muscle or twinge near his back passage. A peculiar thing. Surely Dean had been harder on his body than Arthur ever was, despite the tenderness and careful consideration given--Castiel had always been tender for days with the other man, and though his time with Arthur was quite cruel, it never lasted for more than a night--but now it is as if there are no consequences; no lasting physical impressions of the time he and Dean have shared. Even the scratches Castiel had left down Dean’s back seemed to have disappeared entirely--something Castiel chooses not to dwell too closely on.

He is sad to see Dean leave that Monday morning, but in two days’ time, there will be an event hosted by the prestigious Lucien Morningstar in which Dean will be live painting. Dean did not mention what that would entail, and Castiel can only suspect, but Castiel knows he must look his very best if he is to be in such company. 

He calls on Josie after he has had a light lunch and tea and the two of them merrily go out to fetch a new wardrobe for the coming event. She looks particularly rosy, and Castiel must comment on her looks.

“You absolutely glow, dearest! What have you gotten yourself into while I was indisposed?”

“O, it was a most gay weekend of fine feasting and revelry, if you catch my meaning!” She winks. “And to you, the same. I have never seen you look so supremely effulgent. May I assume that you have had such a similar weekend with Dean?” 

Castiel blushes and looks down to his shoes with a smile. “Oh, yes. It was divine. You truly do not mind that I have done such a thing? I will never wish to jeopardize this courtship, as it has meant so much to me.”

Josie laughs at that and bops the tip of his nose with a gloved finger. “You are too sweet. Never feel guilt or upset over what you do. We are all libertines, and it is not in our nature to feel dismayed over who spreads their legs for us--or whom we spread our legs for, for that matter!”

Castiel smiles at her then looks her in the eye to ask an earnest question. “How is it that you have become a part of this club? You have answered only in jest thus far, and I am the picture of curiosity. It seems a man’s club, this libertine society. How do you fit in with it all, being such a lady as yourself? How call yourself a libertine?”

Josie sneers at him with this comment. It is not truly malevolence that crosses her face, but it is such a look of great annoyance that Castiel instantly regrets the question. “I truly am just as much a man as a woman, and anyone who questions my place in the society soon finds themself in a sorry state.” Her eyes glint briefly with menace, but Castiel quickly assures her.

“No, no, lady. I did not mean to question your place there, only to ask how you came to be there in the first place. I suppose I am under certain false assumptions. I did not know you to be a man, and I apologize.” 

Josie shrugs her slim--and assuredly--feminine shoulders at him then says, “I am, and I am not. The same as I am a woman, but not entirely that. I am both and neither.”

Castiel feels more confused than anything. He supposes it is a mystery that is not for him to know. He must look like perplexity in the flesh, for Josie laughs at him and rubs a soft hand down his back with a gentle assurance. “Do not think on it too greatly, dearest. You will soon know the truth of it.”

The rest of the day passes swiftly in Josie’s company. She seems to forget her brief upset with Castiel, and he is certainly glad for it, though their conversation does nothing short of baffle him. But not wishing to anger her, Castiel leaves the subject alone. 

He ponders the meaning of her words that night as he falls asleep, his eyes drifting to the painting Dean had hung on his wall Friday past. He can see the faces morph into something like his and Josie’s--writhing upon bone and pierced flesh. Only it is not he in the position of the man, but she--and she takes him in such a forceful manner that he questions his own strength, for she easily overwhelms him. 

When he finally catches his sleep, he finds himself in strange dreams of demons and all manner of unsavory beings. They hold him down on a pile of bones--an altar of blood and despair. The painted couple are there, at times wearing the faces of Josie and Dean. But sometimes they morph into ghastly visages of the most grotesque and monstrous creatures he has seen, all black eyes and gaping maws full of twisted, sharp teeth. 

They hold him down for an approaching figure; a half-man with the head of a goat, standing near to seven feet tall and its bulbous, barbed phallus erect. Its lithe muscles glisten with a sheen of blood--and the smell of decay wafting from it is so sickeningly sweet that Castiel must swallow back the bile rising in his throat. It does not speak with words--for the snout would not allow for such human syllables-- but he knows--has the uncanny sense--that this figure is designated as a king of Hell. 

He is meant to spread his legs and worship. Castiel allows it to take position above him with little fuss, though his mind is reeling at the implications--he is at war with his own mind. He should fight for his soul, but demons are persuasive by their very nature and he finds that he wishes to be taken. 

When the beast ruts into him, the Josie and Dean shaped creatures laugh in delight--a wholly discordant and menacing sound. It is pain and horror and he can feel the barbs catching on the soft skin of his insides. But Castiel cannot help but to move his hips and urge the thing to truly take him, despite his mind and body screaming out for it to end. He knows this is what must happen--that he must be a sacrifice of flesh. 

He is ripped asunder, blood cascading down his thighs to form a sticky pool below him. As his blood soaks through the altar of bones, he can feel the ritual coming to its conclusion. When the beast finally ejaculates, Castiel can feel the fluid coursing through his body, burning like the most caustic of acids. He melts and he bleeds and everything is pain. He feels terrified. He feels complete.

When he awakens, it is late in the morning, the sun peeking in through his heavy curtains casting a faint glow about the room. He is unsettled by his dreams, but as is the nature of such things, ephemeral and intangible, his mind soon forgets.

\---

Wednesday evening fast approaches and Castiel’s valet works vigilantly to ensure that he looks his very best. Castiel appraises himself in his mirror and scarcely recognises the man stood before him; he has filled out from the gangly youth he was always used to seeing, and he feels a sense of pride knowing that he will outshine most everyone at the party. He knows this is vanity, but it does not stop the thought from being true. He suddenly understands how he has caught the attention of both Dean and Josie--two of the most radiantly beautiful creatures he has laid eyes upon. 

He shares a coach with Josie into the heart of the Picadilly estates where Lord Lucien Morningstar resides. Castiel has always wondered if it was a false name the man had claimed, for surely it must be contrived. Admittedly, the name fairly fits the man, for he has always been dashing and charismatic, men and women consistently swooning over him in spades. He truly could be the sly devil he claims to be.

When they arrive, they are ushered into the extravagant estate by one of Lord Morningstar’s servants--a man who is adorned in naught but elaborate paints upon his body, made to look as though creatures are ripping through his abdomen. It is so real at first, that Castiel has a sudden fright, his heart pounding fast, before he realizes it is all a part of Dean’s showcase.

Castiel barely takes in the vast entryway and grand staircase, his eyes roaming to the display of flesh, painted in a variety of scenes. There are so many walking canvasses that he knows not where to keep his eyes or what to scrutinize first.

The decision is made for him when a tall man of commanding presence approaches wearing a charming smile with cleverness dancing behind his eyes. Lucien Morningstar is without doubt a handsome man, though it is not the same classical beauty that Dean, or even he himself, has. Lucien has sharp features and eyes of a particular shade of brown that almost flash red in certain lights. The strange pull that Castiel feels--the pure animal magnetism--is undeniable, though Castiel feels his allure is drawn from someplace not of this earth. 

Lucien’s voice is merrily singsong as he greets them. “Can this possibly be Lord Gray? You have grown into quite the fine man since I have seen you last! And what a pleasure and surprise it is to see you at a society event. Had I known you had inclinations of our sort, I would have had you here years ago. I must thank the Lady Sands for introducing you to our little circle of friends.” There is a sparkle of mischief in the man’s eyes as he kisses Josie’s hand, though his face shows nothing but civility. “Please, have some refreshments. There are servants with absinthe and wine, if it pleases you. Make yourselves comfortable in my home and treat yourselves to the luxury. The only rule here tonight: You must enjoy yourselves.” 

Lucien slides a hand down Castiel’s arm as they lock eyes. Castiel can almost hear the thoughts of the other man, screaming out promises of pleasure beyond imagining. It sends a shiver down his spine to be looked at so, and he can feel his prick beginning to stir with interest.

As the man walks away, a spell is broken. Castiel realizes that he did not speak or return the greeting in any way, and suddenly feels like a star-struck little boy. Gobshite. What manners! He will have to seek the man out later and apologize for the lack of civility on his own part.

It is then that he can feel eyes upon him and quickly sees that Dean has been watching the exchange with an odd look on his face. If Castiel didn’t know better, he would think the man jealous! But that seems to be the truth of it, for when Lucien walks past him, Dean shoots the man with a glare that could turn any other to stone. And instead of coming over to greet Castiel, he turns and stalks off after Lucien into another part of the estate.

This reaction perplexes Castiel to no end, for surely it was only a polite greeting and nothing more to any outside observer. And with the fact that Dean is a part of this society for libertines, how could something so simple as a small flirtation be cause for any upset? 

Josie must sense his mood, for she lays a soft hand upon his arm and speaks soothingly. “No, my dear. That is not like Dean at all. But those two have long feuded. It is best to let them discuss ‘til their minds are at ease.” But Castiel cannot wait this peculiarity out. He feels a tug from within, almost as if Dean is calling for him to come hither. 

“I must seek out Dean and have words post haste. I wish not to be the cause of upset.” 

Castiel takes his leave of Josie and follows after the two men. He can hear her click her tongue in a tsk as he walks away, but he knows that she will understand, for they are fast friends and their courtship has proven to be anything but traditional.

Castiel rounds a corner into a parlour where Lucien and Dean stand, their silhouettes strong against the backdrop of candlelight, their heads together in intense conversation. There are others in the room--some are engaging in polite conversation, while others seem to have given up all sense of propriety and grope enthusiastically in the corners.

As Castiel approaches he can hear Lucien saying a few final words to Dean before both their heads turn to regard him. “Know your place,  _ boy _ .” Lucien’s eyes seem to flash red for the briefest of moments causing Dean to flinch back in apprehension. Then Lucien is all smiles and walks slowly to where Castiel stands before them. Castiel can see anger and defeat warring over Dean’s soft features, but before Castiel can speak a word to him, he is being led away by Lucien, and willingly goes as he feels himself slipping back under that spell. Dean frowns, then walks in the other direction. Castiel knows he will be fine, for surely Lucien only wants a moment of his time. 

He is led to a small gallery of portraits, all so lifelike that he is certain that they were created by Dean. He does not have more than a moment to feel awe at the beauty around him, for Lucien presses up against him and pushes him back into the wall. “The impertinence of that man… telling me I cannot have you. You don’t feel that way do you, Castiel?” Castiel shakes his head no, unable to speak, feeling dizzy and forgetting all else but the hypnotic gaze holding him fast. Who does he speak of? It is unquestionable that Lucien may take what he likes, and no man may claim otherwise. 

Lucien leans his head in and breaths deeply at Castiel’s neck. “I can smell him all over you, and that will not do.” He leans back again to lock eyes with Castiel. “Take off your clothes.” Again, Castiel can only nod and begins expediently removing his formal attire, unable to look away from Lucien’s stare. 

He does not notice that they have moved until he is pushed back upon a plush velveteen couch, Lucien planting himself firmly between Castiel’s open legs. When did the man remove his own clothing? It is an odd sensation to not recall things as they happen, but Castiel cannot think too much on it--this is precisely what is meant to occur and Castiel would have things no other way in the moment. 

Lucien fucks Castiel like they have had some long-standing tryst, forgotten lovers coming together after years apart. It is a frenzied act, hips moving desperately in tandem, as if the two men are unwilling to ever separate, even after they find their completion.

Lucien looks up at someone Castiel cannot see, stood somewhere behind where they writhe together on the couch. His voice is commanding, even as he growls lowly into Castiel’s ear. “You are mine.”

“Yes,” Castiel pants out, his nails scratching down Lucien’s back, hips moving beneath the other man, urging him to move faster.

“You will forsake all others but me.”

“Yes.” And Castiel knows this to be true, should Lucien wish it.

Lucien looks back down at Castiel and kisses him deeply, his tongue warm and sweet against Castiel’s own, even as his hips begin pumping with what seems inhuman strength and speed. Castiel screams out his pleasure into the other man’s mouth, relishing the pure brutality of the whole thing. He is sure he has begun to bleed. He  _ wants _ to bleed for Lucien. To let the man know that his body will respond--to come apart--even to die at his beckon.

When Lucien finally pulls out of Castiel, he flips him over so Castiel is flat on his stomach. He can feel the sticky pool of blood against his groin as he is pushed down into the couch. And then Lucien’s mouth is around his back passage, sucking hard and tongue flicking in and out to catch and drink down the blood and seminal fluids that trickle freely from his hole. It is as if the man is feasting upon his ruined flesh. He can feel teeth biting into his skin and rending the existing tears wide open. But Castiel does not scream in agony, though he would surely like to--he can only moan in pure bliss as he is devoured. It is what Lucien would want, and Castiel will oblige gladly.

And then as quickly as it seemed to begin, it is over and Lucien is no longer above Castiel. He can hear him speaking, presumably to whomever he had been looking at before, and his tone carries such malevolence that Castiel nearly feels sick through his fog of ecstasy.

“Lucky for you, I wished only a sample. He is already tainted by your foul spirit. But perhaps this will show you your place beneath me,  _ Duke _ .” 

Castiel feels as if he should be in agonizing pain and reaches back to tenderly feel at his ruined passage. He is clean and dry with no hint of pain or twinges. How peculiar. It is if Lucien had not just taken him in such a sickening and marvelous way. Castiel smiles and falls into a deep sleep. When he awakens again it is in the comfort of his own bed. 

It is only in hindsight that Castiel feels saddened that he could not watch Dean paint his live models nor have relations with the man. He only vaguely recalls the night being spent fucked into a stupor by Lord Morningstar, and though he should feel regret, he has a lingering sense that it was meant to happen.

  
  
  



	8. Chapter 8

Thursday morning is uneventful. Castiel spends some time studying his French and Latin, though he does not know why. He booted his nagging tutors out first thing after Kelso was buried, after all. He supposes it is pure boredom that drives him to it, so used to near-constant stimulation as he is as of late. He does not yet wish to call on Josie, for she is often one to sleep late, and he is not sure that Dean would wish to see him after he neglected to speak to him for the whole of his event last night. 

Castiel sets his books aside and dresses for the day, supposing he would like to go to the clubhouse and meet more of the Libertines who gossip within its walls. But the chiming of the doorbell and a loud knock makes his decision for him. Castiel’s valet has answered the door and is ushering Dean inside to the parlour when Castiel comes down the stairs to investigate. The man looks haggard, though no less beautiful for it.

“Dean, my heart! I was just thinking of you.”

The man looks surprised for a moment, but his expression quickly turns to happiness, then back to a solemn haggardness. “Well. Good. I was hoping to have words with you since your time was so rudely monopolized last night. I mean, that is, I had wished to paint you. If you would still like, I would begin today. I have a carriage outside...” He is stammering and stumbling over his quickly spoken words, and Castiel isn’t sure what to make of it. He recalls little of his time the evening past--he must have drunk heavily to not recall clearly, though he is refreshed and fine this day, so perhaps it was something he ate. The pure bliss of Lucien’s desire is all that is truly known. But he feels poorly that it has caused Dean such discomfort.

“Dean, I should love to sit for you whenever it pleases you. But you must come upstairs and help me choose what to wear.” He takes Dean by the hand and begins to pull him towards the stairs, but the man resists.

“No. Nothing. I should like to paint you in your flesh and nothing more.” Dean has a hopeful look in his eyes, and Castiel is suddenly aware that Dean feels Castiel is no longer his, has been claimed by another--knows it as if his very thoughts are being sent directly to Castiel’s mind.

He squeezes his hand reassuringly then leans in to place a kiss upon Dean’s soft lips. “Whatever you desire.”

\---

The carriage ride passes quickly as they discuss what they are to each other. Castiel confides in Dean that he had already fallen in love with the lady Sands, but that Dean has also taken much of the space that was at first solely hers. Any others that gain his attention are purely in the spirit of chasing pleasure and nothing more. He quite enjoys the hedonistic lifestyle Josie has introduced him to. Dean seems to relax at this.

“I have never felt poorly sharing with Josie. We have always been thick as thieves. And if I must share you with her too, well,” Dean smiles with puckish delight, “think of the wondrous things the three of us could do together. As for the others, I am a part of that lifestyle too. There will always be others, for all of us. I simply do not like the way Luci...Lucien made claim to you, as if no others were there. He is the senior-most member--and has the most clout--in our, uh, club, but his disregard to the other members is abominable.” Dean lets out a huff. “But we are past that. He is sure to make another claim, but so long as I have your heart--and Josie too--it is something I can live with.”

Castiel bites his lip and smiles at the thought of he, Josie, and Dean sharing a bed. He is pleased that Dean is so understanding and is optimistic that things will continue to be well and adventurous between them all.

\---

Dean takes Castiel to a small room tucked in the back of his gallery that Castiel had not yet seen. Within is housed all of the supplies Dean needs to create his masterworks. Not only are there paints and brushes and stretched canvas, but also a woodworking bench and various gadgets that Castiel does not know. He thinks they may be for making the stretcher bars. Of course Dean would create the foundations too, and not source out any bit of the work that would go into one of his creations. Castiel takes it all in with awe. If anything, Castiel has found the aristocracy to be lazy at best, always seeking out someone else to do the work for them. But not Dean. He is too clever to allow any others to have a hand in his art.

Dean leads him over to an area in which is staged to pose models and helps him to undress. The whole process is highly intimate and Castiel cannot help but to lean in and kiss the man. Dean smiles against Castiel’s lips then takes a step back and begins to remove his own garments.

“And here I thought I was to pose for  _ you _ .”

“Ah, yes. But I prefer to paint in the nude. It wouldn’t do to soil my garments.” Dean winks at him, then turns around, setting his clothing in a neat pile on an old wooden stool. 

Castiel feasts his eyes upon the exposed flesh before him and greatly admires the perfect curves of the man. He gets the sense that Dean is doing this purely for his own amusement. But needless to say, the reaction is imminent and to say he is aroused is a gross understatement. 

When Dean turns around and sees the state Castiel is in, he grins widely. “You are awesome. I have never seen greater perfection in the male form. How is it you are so evenly tanned when we scarce have a day of sunlight these days?” 

Castiel puffs out a small, laughing breath through his nose. “I suppose my lineage comes from the Silures. Dark of complexion.”

“I see.” Dean seems not to be listening, but continues to drink the sight of him in--a similar way to how Castiel cannot take his eyes from Dean. The look on the man’s face does nothing to help relieve the throbbing ache between his legs.

Dean grabs Castiel gently, and sits him on the chaise, positioning him so he is laid back with one arm resting above his head, the other hanging down the side, fingertips brushing the floor. Dean then moves to position Castiel’s legs, one knee bent and spread to rest on the back of the chaise, and the other laid flat. 

Dean steps back to his easel and begins pacing back and forth, scrutinizing Castiel. When he finds the angle he wishes to paint, he moves everything so it is positioned just so. Castiel is fascinated by the process, and he watches Dean closely as he arranges his space so it is just to his liking.

“Just one last thing, Cas. Now, don’t move.” Dean walks over to him and kneels down, sucking the length of Castiel’s erection down without warning. Castiel lets out a loud moan, but does everything in his power to not move a muscle. And before he can truly react, Dean is walking back to his station.

“What was that for? You know how hard it will be for me to stay still now.”

Dean laughs, “But we cannot have you waning.”

Castiel gives him an incredulous glare.

Dean begins painting. Castiel cannot see what marks on the canvas Dean makes, but it is still fascinating to watch the man work. His eyebrows raise now and then and he often bites his lip in concentration, eyes constantly flicking back and forth between Castiel and his canvas. 

The smell of the paints and turpentine relax Castiel. Dean’s movements put him into a trance. He has waking dreams about the future and thinks how pleased he is to have met such wonderful and sexually free people. The only time he is shocked back into reality is when Dean occasionally walks over to him and sucks down the length of his erection, keeping him in a state of arousal for the portrait. Hours pass and Castiel hardly feels the need to stir.

When Dean walks back to him for the final time, Castiel smiles up at him. “Surely you are not finished.”

“No. But I do not wish to make you stay still any longer.”

“It is fine, if you wish to work longer.”

Dean answers him by crawling on top of him, nudging Castiel’s knees farther apart so he can fit himself snugly within the space. “I have other things I would like to work on now.”

\---

Castiel dreams strangely. 

He is back on the altar of bones and blood, the painted couple holding his arms. Snakes slither about his body and whisper dark secrets and names. Abaddon. Dantanion. The Destroyer and the Seducer. Fallen angels.

The snakes continue to slither, wrapping themselves around his neck and arms and legs, spreading him wide. He lets his knees fall open with the slightest of urging. Whatever they are preparing to do, he awaits in eager anticipation. 

A snake enters his mouth, pushing his jaw apart, pushing his head back, sliding down his throat so he cannot breathe. He does not need the air. He can feel another nudging at his back entrance, and then another, the two warring over who gains access first, hissing and biting, striking at his tender flesh with dripping fangs. But there are so many snakes, and Castiel grows hard thinking they may all take their own turn. 

_ Fuck me _ ,  _ all of you, _ he thinks. And so they do. 

The first snake nudges its head against his rim, then slowly pushes itself inside of him. Castiel is immediately struck with a profound sense of pleasure at how wrong it is to want this. The snake writhes its body, expanding and contracting as it works its way within. Other snakes tighten their hold about his wrists, legs and neck, squeezing and pulling, forcing Castiel still--for he wants nothing more than to writhe along with them. 

His jaw becomes unhinged and the skin at his lips tears, blood leaking down the side of his face, as the snake in his mouth slithers deeper down his esophagus, its body growing wider as it moves slowly down. He can feel the same happen from below as more of the creatures force their way into his body. The skin of his abdomen stretches along the curve of each snake pumping into his belly from above and below.

His body is filled. He is theirs. He is a snake. Sharp, venomed fangs lash out and sink deep into the head of his cock and Castiel comes undone.

He awakens to the climax of his fadings, bedding now soiled with spunk and urine. He places a hand on his belly, sure he can still feel snakes writhing within. 

Dean stirs beside him, asleep on his belly, a soft sigh and smile telling of his sweet dreams, and Castiel is struck with a wicked urge to watch Dean being taken apart by those snakes, such angelic beauty being tainted by that evil. Despite being covered in his own filth and having only just released, he finds he is arisen and ready for action. 

Castiel crawls on top of the man, nudging his cock against Dean’s anus, relaxed and pliant in his sleeping state. But before he can push himself inside, he finds himself flat on his back, being pinned down, arms above his head. Dean growls, then kisses Cas with a ferocity that Castiel has not yet seen and it makes him quake. The desire to tear Dean apart fades and is replaced with the urge to be filled yet again. The snakes demand company. 

\---

Dean continues painting Castiel that afternoon. They take a carriage back to Dean’s Piccadilly studio, strip down to their bare skins, then get to work. Castiel lays back in the position he was in before, and Dean makes a few small adjustments, then takes a moment to stare and appreciate the lithe form of Castiel before he smiles and walks to his canvas. He removes the drop cloth, mixes a few paints, then sets to.

It is another few hours of Castiel getting lost in daydream when Dean declares the painting finished. Castiel pushes up onto his elbows. “Truly? I should have thought it would take you far longer! You amaze me, Dean.”

“Well, do not be amazed yet, you have not seen it.”

“May I?”

Dean nods his head and beckons Castiel over to the canvas.

It is the most remarkable thing to Castiel--to see himself so clearly through another’s eyes. It is as if he is looking into a mirror that shows his most perfect self. He cannot help but to fall in love with the creature that Dean sees. “Is this how you truly see me?” 

“It’s how everyone sees you. You are divine.”

Castiel smiles at the man. “We must hang this at once. Come home with me?”

“Of course.”


	9. Chapter 9

Dean stays with Castiel again on Friday, then goes home to prepare himself for the masquerade at Lord McLeod's estate. His brother, Samuel, will be at this event and the two of them are to spend the day together prior to the night's extravaganza. Castiel is looking forward to seeing the handsome giant again. He seemed a fine and decent sort that Castiel thinks he could easily be friendly with--though perhaps decency is all relative in this crowd.

Castiel calls on Josie shortly after noon for tea and they chitchat to pass the time while they are waiting for their garments to be delivered from the seamster. 

“You should see it, Josie! I was floored by Dean’s paintings before, but it is so different when it is myself in the portrait. It is like I am looking into a mirror, though Dean’s canvas shows me so much more than I knew was there! Is it wrong that I want it to come alive so I can fuck myself? It is on display in my bedroom, after all. It is not so strange a wish, is it?”

Josie snorts out a very unladylike guffaw. “Oh, dear. You and so many others. The lot of the society would like a sample of your goods.”

“Yourself included?” Castiel gives her a playful wink.

“Indeed.”

“So then, why have we not? I am not saying that I do not enjoy the things you have done to me, but we have not fully joined our bodies and I must wonder why.”

“Hmmmm. Perhaps I am allowing you to save the best for last.”

“Is that so?” Castiel positions himself so he is hovered over her, legs straddling her hips, as she rests back against the fainting couch, a coy smile playing on her lips. He traces his fingers down her neck and cups her soft breast, pleased that she is allowing him these touches. But as he leans down to kiss her, she shoves him off to the floor. He falls with a loud thud and a laugh. Before he can right himself, she has switched their positions so she instead straddles his hips.

Without warning, she is tearing his trousers down and leaving his manhood exposed to the air. “Yes, it is so. But we cannot leave you wanting in the meantime.” She moves her head down to swallow him whole, doing marvelous things with her tongue. As plump and soft as Dean’s lips are, he does not have the skill or technique that Josie has acquired. And poor Arthur has been put to shame entirely. It is no wonder the man has to take people unwilling! At least he never had to suffer the man’s cock up his ass--such an act would be far too intimate for that scoundrel.

Castiel comes to his release embarrassingly fast, even as his mind has drifted to thoughts of Arthur--peculiar, that--but Josie seems not to mind and swallows down every last drop that escapes his cock.

“Shit. You are most superb. I am in a state of anticipation for when you will allow me to return the favour!” Castiel lets his head fall back to the floor and groans at the ache it causes in his skull. 

“Patience. But you are delicious, sweet boy. I could eat all of you and still not have my fill.”

Castiel lets out a laugh at the thought: Josie eating a perfectly roasted carving of his flesh at her dining table, fine silverware in hand, dabbing delicately at her red lips with the end of a linen napkin, catching at the fat that threatens to dribble down her chin. 

She smiles and helps him to right his garments as a knock comes to the parlour door. “Lady, the delivery from your seamster has arrived. Shall I send for Lord Gray’s valet?”

Castiel quickly stands and nearly stumbles over himself in his excitement. “Oh, yes. You must hurry!”

Josie lets out a most delighted laugh at his eagerness. “We must take our time to prepare. It simply will not do to be dolled up and yet have to wait!”

Castiel furrows his brows then lets out a playful expletive. “ _ Nom de Dieu! Ferme ta gueule! _ Then we will drink merrily and have our own ball.” 

Josie continues to laugh but gives him a firm shove in the direction of the stairs. “You may prepare in the room next to mine, and I shall see you again in the parlour when it is time to depart.” 

He gives a two-finger salute, then marches into the room to await his valet. And though he is of the neighboring estate, it seems as if hours pass before his man arrives to dress him and make him coiffed to perfection. 

Castiel chats with his valet as he begins removing Castiel’s suit from the garment bags delivered by the seamster. He is curious as to what the man thinks of the recent goings-on in his house.

“Milligan, is it not? Adam?”

“Yes, sir. That’s what they call me.” He steps in close to Castiel and undoes the buttons of his shirt and Castiel truly takes in the man’s appearance for the first time, staring at his sharp but fine features and clever blue eyes. It is fair to say that the man is pleasant to look upon. 

He has been Castiel’s valet for only a short time, and being a man that his grandfather had assigned to him, Castiel had not yet bothered to really learn anything about him other than a name. Adam must be of a similar age, though surely his senior by only a few years. He yet maintains a youthful charm that Castiel is invigorated by.

“And how have you found affairs of the estate these days? Since Kelso’s passing? Nothing to your disliking?”

Castiel can see the amusement dancing behind his eyes as he responds. “I assure you, I have no clue as to what you speak. All is well.”

“Good boy,” Castiel notes the way the man blushes at that and cannot help but seek further reaction. “The next time I find myself without company, I should like to seek you out. Will you come to my bed?”

It takes a while for Adam to respond as he fusses over Castiel’s wardrobe as thoroughly as any good servant should, even though Castiel notes that the man’s hands shake slightly. 

“I...should like that, sir.” Adam will not meet his eyes but continues to make Castiel beautiful, as is his duty. Castiel makes certain to let the whole experience be as intimate as he can, touching Adam here, and leaning into his space, breathing him in. By the time the man is finished in his task, he is breathless and trembling. 

Castiel places a hand on his chest and leans in close, lips nearly brushing. He can feel Adam’s heart pounding in his chest, and he does not know if it is out of fear or desire, but Castiel cares not. He finds that he quite enjoys having such power over another and the reactions his very presence can elicit.

“You have done well in your duties. You shall be rewarded soon.” Castiel closes the small distance and plants a quick kiss to his lips. Adam is soft and pliant, and when his eyes open and look directly at Castiel once again, he can see the curiosity there, plain as day. “Now help me into this mask so I can see myself in the mirror.”

Adam does as he is told without a word, and when Castiel steps away and appraises himself in the mirror, he is momentarily struck speechless. He is as dapper and beautiful as anything he has seen, and surely will put even Lord Morningstar to shame with his debonair charm. And though his mask is gruesome in appearance, all bones and goblinoid in its shape, it does not take away from his looks, but somehow quite adds to the effect of otherworldly grace. He must make a donation to the seamster and his team for their most wonderful work! They must have true magic at their fingertips to create such things.

“And what say you, Adam? Is this not the most splendid suit?”

“Splendid is not the word I would choose.” Castiel looks to the man with a furrowed brow, but sees the infatuation written about his face and the noticeable tent in his uniform trousers, and so smiles widely at the response. 

He will find great joy in taking this man apart.

\---

When Josie comes down to the parlour, shortly after Castiel himself has seen his valet out and has gone to the room to wait, Castiel is not prepared for how wickedly magnificent she appears. He is stunned speechless for a second time. He finds it amazing at just how often she elicits that response from him--though this time it is a far more serious effect.

She wears a black gown of the most clinging, drapey silk he has ever seen that leaves little to the imagination, as it hugs her every curve like a second skin. Above that she wears a cage and corset of fine bone and blood--it is alike to the farthingales he has seen in portraits of the older generations, before the modern fashion of the bustle skirts, but it does not seem as if she is wearing her undergarments above her gown. It is as if she is wrapped in some warm embrace by death. The accompanying mask she wears is also made of fine bones, like that of a bird or other small creature, soaked in the crimson red of blood. But despite the bloody and gruesome effect, she almost seems haloed, as if she is a fallen angel. The name Abaddon comes to mind, and he fully thinks she truly could be that angel of destruction and death. The destroyer from his dreams. 

She almost carries an aura of demonic menace about her in this guise, but Castiel finds that it adds all the more to her allure and does not feel the intimidation that surely others must feel around her. He is highly aroused. 

“ _ Mon Dieu _ …”

Josie bellows out a laugh at his response. “God? Not the name I was hoping to invoke, but I will take it as a compliment all the same. Shall we be off?”

Castiel offers his elbow as they leave the estate, careful not to stand too closely so as not to upset her delicate garment of bones. She has hired a special coach that is built quite tall so as to allow her to ride without the need to sit. She holds onto the handrail with one hand and keeps her arm about Castiel’s elbow for the duration of the journey. Castiel says nothing for the trip, and can only stare in open want and hunger at the creature on his arm. 

He never suspected to be such a lucky man, but here he is, now the center of attention to not one, but two of the most divine beings in all of creation. He has found great vanity within himself, yet still cannot fathom how Josie and Dean could both love him so.

When they arrive at Lord Fergus McLeod’s estate, they are announced at the door as Lady Sands and Lord Gray. Castiel inhales a deep breath of satisfaction. He knows without a doubt that they will be the most sought after at the party. Several eyes have already turned to them. 

Lord McLeod comes to greet them personally, taking Josie’s hand in his own to leave a soft kiss on her knuckles, and giving a slight bow. “My dear Josephine, you will forever take my breath.” 

His greeting towards Castiel is far less polite, but arouses something deep within his gut. McLeod leans in close and cups Castiel’s face, his thumb gliding into Castiel’s mouth, the pad dragging briefly against his teeth before he slides the digit down across his lip and chin. “And you, Lord Gray, look good enough to eat.”

Castiel darts his tongue out briefly to touch the pad of the man’s thumb, a small smile quirking his lips as he pictures McLeod sat at the dining table with Josie, as he too dines on a fine carving of Castiel’s flesh.

Josie slaps McLeod’s hand away with a laugh. “Hush, Fergus! He is not on the menu!”

Oh, but he most certainly is! Castiel is slightly disappointed at Josie’s response. Fergus McLeod does not hold the physical beauty of some of their fellow society friends, but he is charming and has the most clever almond eyes, and Castiel is certain that he would love to be bent over some elegantly carved piece of furniture for the man. Castiel gives the man a promise with his eyes, and McLeod catches onto it quickly.

Josie tuts in exasperation and pulls Castiel away by his elbow. “Come along. We must find Dean and Samuel.” She accentuates the name Dean, and Castiel suddenly forgets all about Fergus McLeod in his desire to find Dean and see what elaborate costume the shrewd painter has come up with.

Castiel is curious as they roam the estate. Each room seems to be set up as a different station, all equipped with various implements of restraint and tools for maximizing the pleasure of the masked participants. Some are in use, while others have yet to draw folks in.

A variety of unmasked servants wander from room to room holding trays filled with grapes and olives for the guests to snack on, while others bring drinks and collect empty flutes and goblets. All of them are either in long, diaphanous gowns or completely in the nude.

Castiel pauses at the entrance to one room where a young man of a similar age to himself is strapped to a table. He is nude and wears no mask, indicating that he is one of the servants hired for the evening's enjoyments. A metal rod with a ball at the end is inserted into the head of his penis--the exact thing he had been subjected to with Arthur all those weeks ago--but he does not cry out for it to stop. The man throws his head back and moans out his pleasure, hips writhing and bucking up to meet each thrust of the rod. How peculiar that he finds such enjoyment from it! But Castiel can most certainly see why Arthur had done it to him, for bearing witness to the act makes him feel quite powerful. And despite loving the power he feels, something stirs in him that makes him want to try again--to be on the receiving end, restrained and unable to stop it. But perhaps without the electricity. And most decidedly not with Arthur! It is both fascinating and terrifying all at once. 

They pass several other rooms filled with moans of pleasure and the sounds of cracking whips--and one where a group of naked, masked men are sat sharing a hookah, discussing the philosophy of love versus lust!-- before they come to a room where Dean and Samuel stand conversing with a tall man in a devil’s mask.

Dean stands tall and proud, clad only in a deerskin loincloth. His body has been fully painted in browns and golds, and a set of antlers seem to be growing straight from his head. He looks like the embodiment of one of the old gods, the king stag, ready to stand and fight for his rule over the people. It is such a sight that Castiel feels he must sit lest he swoon like a woman! But Josie’s hand on his arm keeps him upright and grounded. He does not fully take in Sam’s attire, nor the masked devil, for his eyes belong only to Dean.

When Dean turns his head to lock eyes with Castiel it is as if he has many faces--dozens of men and women sharing the same skull, all vying for the dominant position--but it is also undeniably Dean. When those green eyes gaze into his own, Castiel can feel all the desire and knowledge of the world flooding into him, spinning him about, telling him secrets. If only he could reach out his hand and grasp those intangible words, he would be as a god, too. Castiel feels as if he cannot breathe. He knows this dark angel--not a god at all, but one of the fallen. Dantanion. The seducer. The one from his dreams. 

And then Dean blinks his hypnotic eyes, a wide and beautiful smile directed at Castiel, and the vision is gone. It is only him in his garb as the horned god. But Castiel cannot look away or speak. He wonders if Josie and Dean have some magic about them in truth--and perhaps Lord Morningstar too--for he has never been affected so by another living being. And now it seems everyone he meets has some hold over his mind. 

The thought frightens him.

\---

Castiel drinks heavily. 

He joins in conversation with various people throughout the night, but does not make eye contact. Castiel feels this helps him keep some clarity, even drunk as he has become. 

He spends a good portion of his time at the masquerade as a voyeur, wandering from room to room witnessing all the delicious and deviant acts done to the men and women hired for the event. Eventually, his arousal gets the better of his unease, and he goes to sit by himself, pondering whether he should like to partake in any of the acts occurring. It is surely within his right. 

His mind wanders to Dean. Not to the fright, his visage of many faces has left in Castiel’s mind, but to the thoughts of how free and not of this world he feels when the man is inside him. He wants more of that feeling; he will always want more, and knows this to be fact. 

And the ever-elusive Josie. She has done marvelous things to him, but anything of a deeper connection between them is all promises for the future, never deeds done. He is certain the two of them--Josie and Dean--have coupled, and Castiel feels as if he should twinge with jealousy that Dean has tasted what he has not, but the envy never comes. For it is Josie herself that comes to him.

She stands before him in her death mask of blood and bone, gown and exoskeleton cage discarded. For the first time Castiel takes in the expanse of her glowing skin, and it is something to behold. She has not a blemish to her, a milky-skinned goddess with the finest of curves and proportions. But the thing that Castiel finds the most appealing, and is startled to find--is not her perfect breasts nor even the angelic radiance she seems to emit--but there between her legs stands proud the most glorious of phallic specimens any of the male sex could wish to endow. 

Castiel falls to his knees to worship before Josie--a humble worm--and burrows his face into the dark auburn hair of her pubis, hands sliding up her soft hips, and inhaling the scent of her consummate manhood. He opens his mouth and begins suckling, scarcely able to take the whole of it in, but the length does nothing to hinder him from attempting to swallow her down. He can hear her let out a pleased moan and a laugh that sounds most triumphant and wicked.

He does not so much as see, but feels the presence of Dean come up behind him. As if the shadows of those great antlers whisper to his soul. He is guided to stand, letting Josie’s cock slip from his lips with a regretful sigh, then is turned around to face the stag. He is golden and resplendent. He has a smile in his eyes.

Tender hands begin removing his garments from in front and behind, until he is stood in naught but his goblinoid mask, exposed and vulnerable between the two fallen angels. He feels so profoundly for the two in that moment that Castiel can only hang his head and sob.

“Please. I am not worthy of your affection.”

Dean lifts his chin up with his hands and kisses him. It would seem that his mask should get in the way of such a thing, but it is as if it has become a second skin, and Castiel barely has time to ponder the oddity of it before Dean is grabbing him by the posteriors and lifting him up and guiding Castiel’s legs around his waist. Josie wraps her slender arms around him and guides him to lean back against her soft breasts.

Castiel arches back into Josie as Dean inserts himself into Castiel, the back of his neck resting comfortably against Josie’s shoulder. He has to wonder at her strength, even if Dean is partially holding him up. But she nips at his earlobe, purring softly into his ear and Castiel focuses simply on the sensations his two paramours deliver. Josie’s hand slides down his abdomen and takes hold of his aching cock, the other keeping a tight hold on his chest, keeping him in place. She begins pumping in time with Dean’s thrusts. 

But it seems that is not all they have in store for Castiel, for shortly Castiel can feel Josie’s proud member nudging at him, seeking to join Dean’s place inside him. Castiel lets out a scream of mingled pleasure and pain as she slowly works her cock inside, nestled in tight next to Dean. The thought barely registers that there should be no way they could both possibly fit without tearing him asunder, and that they must be using some magic to aid them. They use none of the lubricating jellies, yet he is well and properly oiled. It is as if his body knew what was coming and prepared itself accordingly.

They move in tandem, each striking deep within Castiel like hungry snakes. He can hear Josie panting--hissing-- in his ear as Dean holds his eyes mesmerized. His body moves with them, down to meet their upward thrusts, and up again as they pull back. Repeat. In and out, and up and down. His mouth is dry. 

Castiel lets his gaze tear away from Dean’s for a moment, his head resting back on Josie’s shoulder and face turned towards the open door. Lords Morningstar and McLeod stand before them, their heads together in conspiratorial whispers, eyes darting up to meet Castiel’s. He wonders what they speak of. Lord Morningstar smiles promises at him and Fergus McLeod licks his lips. Do they plan to have the next go at him? Castiel isn’t sure his body could withstand it. He turns his head to the other side, and Sam is there with black demon eyes and little stubs of horns poking from his brow. He wears a leering grin on his face and has his cock in hand. Is everyone to have a turn?

Dean roughly grasps his chin in one hand and forces his gaze back. “Do not pay them any mind. You are mine...”

“And mine,” Josie breathes behind him.

They renew their vigor and Castiel finds himself holding onto Dean’s shoulders for dear life, head thrown back in a silent scream, a prayer for the worship to never end. He does not know when it happens, but finds himself on the floor, Dean beneath him and Josie at him from behind. In this position, they have the leverage to penetrate him deeply and make quite a rough sport of it.

He feels as if he is being thrown about and torn in two, and the only thought he can achieve is that he wants more. Josie’s hand reaches around yet again and takes hold of him, stroking in frenzy, out of time with their wild thrusting, and he finds his release far too soon. The white, sticky strings from his fadings cover Dean--and there is so much, it is all so intense. He feels sick and has need for a sip of water, lest the contents of his stomach be removed from his person. 

Castiel collapses onto Dean, onto the mess he has made of the man’s freckled skin, and must shout for them to stop before he is released. He tumbles to the side and away from Dean and Josie as quick as he can, then promptly vomits upon the elegant marble floor. He stays there on his hands and knees panting for a moment, then rolls onto his back and stares up at the frescoed ceiling. He begins to laugh. His body hurts and his back passage feels swollen, and he cannot shake a sudden feeling that nothing is quite right--nothing is as it seems--but he continues to laugh. He feels marvelous.

  
  



	10. Chapter 10

It is to Castiel’s liking that nothing of significance happens for the remainder of the evening. When he finally finds himself dressed in sleep garments, at home, and tucked into his bed by his most loyal valet, he falls asleep in an instant and does not again wake for twelve full hours. 

He dreams of creatures in plague doctors' garb, fiery-haired hermaphrodites, and a king stag with antlers that gore his flesh. They fill him with whispered seductions and lure him to sink deeper into their depths of lewdness and debauchery. The dark and forbidding ocean of sin sucks him down like flotsam in an eddy. He finds he cannot swim and drowns in it. It is ecstasy. 

When he awakes, Adam is there laying out garments to dress him in for noon tea. He stretches and nearly waves the man away before he thinks better of it. Instead he throws back his covers, nearly startling the poor servant and stands before him in his nightdress.

As is his duty, Adam helps him to undress. But as he reaches for the clean garments laid out before them, Castiel catches his wrist. Adam stares at him with wide, curious eyes, knowledge of what is to come slowly creeping into his expression. Castiel lets the man’s wrist go, then moves to return the favor of undressing him.

Adam silently allows Castiel to undo his buttons with nimble fingers--and a surprise it is too, for not much agility was to be gained in his dreadful time with his tutors, but his hands are quick and clever and have the valet standing nude with utmost expedition. 

Castiel guides Adam to lie back atop the rumpled bedclothes, then stands above him, towering with his proud cock in hand, and takes a moment to let the sight of the man sink in. He is well toned, though does not have the powerful physique of Dean--a man who is used to building things with his own hands, servants or no--but Castiel must admire the definition of each curve and dip of the muscled limbs splayed out before him.

Castiel takes a moment to dig out a jar of carrageenan to help lubricate his way--something he had procured shortly after he and Dean had their first romp together on this very bed. The delicate Chinese symbols on the jar stand out in stark contrast to the vulgar English script above it, and Castiel thinks to himself that he should like to learn the language. Perhaps he should sell off his estates in Spain and France and go live in the Orient for a time; immerse himself in the many cultures that region has to experience.

When Castiel pulls himself out of his thoughts, he looks to see that Adam is growing weary. He must have been daydreaming for longer than he thought. He opens the jar and climbs on top of Adam, then coats his fingers with the jelly. He shoves the man’s legs apart then slides a finger inside of Adam’s posteriors, testing the elasticity of his entrance. His suddenness has Adam startled and clinging to Castiel, slow panting breaths escaping his lips.

Castiel is diligent to be sure his cock is something Adam can withstand--for the man is hard to breach with his fingers alone, and it simply would not due to injure him so he cannot do his paid functions about the house. It is a grace that has not yet been visited upon Castiel’s own body, so he isn’t sure where the idea came from, but he bestows this kind act upon Adam nonetheless. By the time Castiel is satisfied, Adam is panting beneath him, clinging to Castiel’s shoulders like a lifeline. His legs tremble. 

Castiel pushes his stiff phallus inside. He is slow and careful at first, taking care to make this act enjoyable for Adam, as much as it is for himself. When he picks up his pace and truly begins to fuck Adam in earnest, hard and fast, he can see that he did his job to utmost satisfaction--for the man is writhing and moaning beneath him, moving his hips to meet each of Castiel’s thrusts. 

It is not a long and drawn out event like it seems to be with Dean--and now Josie--but it is satisfying in its simplicity. Once Castiel has found his release, he slumps to the side and catches his breath. 

He tilts his head to the side to look at Adam. The man is yet trembling and will not look Castiel in the eye. It is very well that the man does not speak, nor try to connect any further. “You may go and clean yourself up. I will dress myself this day.”

Adam is slow to move, but eventually rights himself and dresses expediently. He maintains a look of utmost curiosity on his face as he silently gathers himself to leave, daring only once to look Castiel in the eyes before he closes the door behind him.

Castiel thinks to himself for a while before he gets up for the day. As he recalls the encounters he has had up to this point, this must be the very first time he has used his own member the way it was meant, for none before Adam have allowed him entrance. Castiel smiles to himself and thinks he enjoys how powerful it makes him feel to be the one to take another apart for a change. He should like to do this again.

\---

Castiel calls on Josie that afternoon, but her man-servant simply states that she has already left the country to attend to matters abroad before gently closing the door on Castiel’s nose. Rude. He wonders what affairs she might have so suddenly, for she certainly never stated to Castiel that she would leave. He makes a note to inquire upon her return.

And so Castiel wanders about the shops of Piccadilly alone, not so far from where Dean’s gallery is set, and wonders if he should chance upon the man this day. Castiel is certain he should be up to have another deviant encounter. His appetite only seems to be growing, despite the trepidation he felt at the previous night's masquerade--those strange thoughts of unease seem almost as a dream. Perhaps his wine had been laced with some hypnotic drug.

Castiel notes with some amusement that there seems to be a young woman following him about. She is dressed finely, but Castiel can tell that the dress she wears has been altered many times; perhaps it belonged to another, or several others, before coming into her possession. She is likely far below his station if she cannot afford to buy something new and must repurpose her clothing in such a manner, and so he chooses not to engage immediately. Though she is quite lovely, with dark hair and piercing brown eyes. Perhaps he should hire her on as a servant in his house and dress her in clothing much more suited to her beautiful complexion. 

Before he can change his mind and approach her forthwith, Dean rounds the corner and nearly runs into Castiel. “Ah! It is good to see you here! I was just now thinking to call on you this evening.”

Castiel smiles at the man and nearly forgets himself to lean in for a kiss, but catches himself before they have a chance to disgrace themselves publicly. It is one thing to copulate freely with another man in the company of the libertines, but out on a busy street for all of the ordinary people to see! That would be such a scandal, Castiel is certain.

He clears his throat and takes a step back. “Good. And what had you in mind?”

Dean offers his elbow which Castiel takes in hand. They walk into a small cafe and order cream tea. 

“I must paint you again. You are my muse these days, and I feel as if my art should slip and become drab if I do not give my brushes what they truly desire.”

Castiel is flattered, to be sure, and eagerly accepts the invitation back to Dean’s studio. He turns his face away from Dean for a moment in false shyness when his eyes fall upon the dark-haired woman yet again. She has followed them into the cafe and sits watching, though she quickly turns her head away when she sees that Castiel has spied her. What a strange creature.

Castiel and Dean converse for a few moments longer when there is a bit of a bustle from the far side of the room. It seems the woman has no money to order anything and is being chaperoned out the doors by a surly looking aproner. Yes, most certainly below his station. Though Castiel has now concluded that should he stumble across her again, he is fairly of the affirmative that they should have a dance between his sheets.

Dean follows his gaze and hums. “Beautiful. And miles of flawless skin, to be sure.”

“You know her?”

Dean nods as Castiel turns his head back to look him in the eyes. “Duma. I have painted her on canvas and painted on her skin. Though she is of lower wealth, and would not normally afford my services, so it is purely for events. An angel, that one.” Dean winks and Castiel blushes. So it would seem she has seen him before, deep in the lewdness of one of his couplings. Perhaps with Lord Morningstar, or with Dean and Josie. It is no wonder he had not recognized her, as distracted as he was at those parties.

“She wishes for a rich husband, and so it seems she has her eyes on you.”

Castiel scoffs. “Husband! I don’t know if I should like that. I suppose I will have to see.”

They finish up at the cafe and Castiel follows Dean back to his studio. Dean had not been prepared to call on Castiel quite yet, but that does not stop him from eagerly inviting Castiel in. He has only a few things to tidy up before he is leading Castiel back to the chaise he had posed on before.

“How would you like me this tmfph...” 

Dean kisses the words from his mouth and aggressively rids Castiel of his clothes. He is pushed back, hard, and he falls down to the chaise with wide eyes. Dean grabs him and roughly flips him onto his belly, then reaches for a hard rubber object that is wide and vaguely mushroom-shaped. It looks like one of those rectal dilators that are said to help with keeping one’s bowels regular. But this tool is connected by a thick cord to a little box with a crank.

Castiel is suddenly reminded of the pain of electrocution and begins to panic. He thrashes about beneath Dean and begins a pathetic mantra of “nonononono” that he cannot stop. But Dean is so strong that he is easily held in place. 

“Shh shh, there’s nothing to be afraid of.”

The soothing tones of Dean’s voice calms him, though he is no less terrified of the imminent pain he is certain is to come. Castiel calms himself to a state of bodily stillness, though his mind is tumultuous. “It will hurt.”

He recognises that this statement is silly--for what have Dean and Josie done but test his limits, pain and pleasure mixing into one glorious sensation. But he wishes not to link what was done to him against his own will with the joy he finds from Dean.

Dean slides off of him and sits in front of the chaise. Castiel turns his head to the side to watch Dean warily. The man reaches up and turns the crank, a buzzing sound emanating from the dilator in his hand. But sparks do not show themselves as it did with Arthur’s device--and why would there be any, for this object is not metal. Castiel untucks a hand from his chest and slowly reaches a tentative hand out to the buzzing object. As his fingers brush the dilator he lets out a surprised laugh. There is no electricity, but a rapid vibration that immediately tingles his flesh.

“You see? Nothing to be frightened of.”

Of course, Dean wouldn’t torture him like that. Castiel buries his head in shame and presents himself to Dean. He can feel Dean slide a gentle hand down his back and across his posteriors. He shivers at the touch. The same shiver a ghost feels when someone touches its grave. 

Dean slowly inserts the object within Castiel and he can feel time slow itself, absorbing this moment into a thousand whispers. He hears "callow" and "modern;" “good boy,” and something much older--primordial. Words with no modern translation. Slow and poetic, yet vulgar to the ear. 

Castiel knows not if words are truly spoke, for this sudden trance clutches deeply. As Dean fucks him, all the sensations of the universe coalesce into this space and time. Dean turns a crank--somewhere off in the distance--and Castiel’s mind shatters. His seed spills forth, erupting like Vesuvius, burying the long lost Herculaneum and Pompeii in its pyroclastic hands. Nations burn to ash under that magnificent sensation. 

The world turns black and he is frozen in agony--in ecstasy. He feels as if he must spill forth until the end of time.

When he finally comes to, Dean is smiling at him with the light of a thousand suns. He is covered in his own blood, caked, peeling and turning shades of brown. “You truly are perfect.”

Castiel bolts upright, only a mild twinge to his ass and assesses his own body. He has not a scratch on him. Did he somehow hurt Dean? He jumps up and rushes to Dean who stands behind his easel. There is a finished painting before him, though Castiel does not give it a glance.

“Are you hurt? I barely recall a thing! Why are you bloodied so?”

Dean laughs. “Any hurt I sustain is nothing--is worth it. I have never been in the company of such a creature before!”

Castiel investigates Dean’s skin like some mother hen and finds the man to be scratched up badly, though none of the wounds should be deep enough to scar. He leans into Dean’s space and licks clean a scratch on his neck that is still oozing small amounts of blood. It smells and tastes metallic, though it is not overwhelmingly so. Castiel finds that he enjoys the flavor of Dean’s blood.

Dean groans, then laughs. “Always hungry, aren’t you? But don’t you want to see your painting?” Castiel bites him, then turns his head to look at what Dean had created. 

Castiel stares wide-eyed at the piece. He already knows of Dean’s magnificence, but it shocks him each time he sees it. Castiel is there in front of himself, sprawled out on his belly, and the look of bliss upon his face that one can only achieve post-coitus. But it is as if Castiel is looking at a live copy of himself in a mirror, and not at a painting at all.

“You never cease to amaze me.”

“You make it easy.” Dean moves behind him and wraps his arms around Castiel, hugging him tight and leaving small kisses to his neck. “The greatest muse I have had. I would wish to paint you forever.”

Castiel turns in Dean’s arms, his hands sliding up his chest and around his neck. “Then you shall have your wish. And I wish for you to love me for all eternity.  Let my portrait grow old and bear the scars of life so that we may never be separated, even by death. For this gift, I would gladly give my soul.  I will always be your muse.” 

It must be a trick of the light, for it seems to Castiel that Dean’s eyes go black, the sclera completely hidden behind endless pools of ink. The illusion only lasts for but a moment, and then the most vivid green is staring back at him again. “Seal that with a kiss?” 

Castiel feels no fear at the trick his eyes must have played and gladly takes Dean’s lips against his own. He has an overwhelming sense that something profound has just happened, that perhaps Dean is the cunning devil Lord Morningstar pretends to be--but if his soul is truly sold, he cares not if it means that Dean will be at his side for always. 


	11. Chapter 11

Castiel falls asleep in Dean’s arms, there on the studio floor amidst the smells of paint and turpentine, and Castiel finds that it makes him feel an overwhelming sense of  _ home _ . He will never tire of the reminder of what Dean is and how accomplished the man is. 

As Castiel sleeps he has more vivid dreams of the painted bone altar. Dean is there dressed as he was for the masquerade--the king stag, tall and proud. He claims Castiel as his own. Mighty antlers tear at his flesh, his life-blood flows freely to saturate the bones in crimson gore. He will never cease to bleed for Dean and gives his life gladly. Josie stands to the side, eyes pitch black and a scowl upon her perfect face. The look she gives says, “This is not right, you are mine, too.” But Castiel cannot detach from Dean, nor does he want to at that moment.

When he awakes, he feels a tight guilt gripping his heart that he had forgotten about the elegant Josie evening last. But he had eyes only for Dean. He shall find a way to make it up to her.

Dean stirs beside him and sleepily pulls Castiel against his body. He can feel the other man’s morning arousal brushing against his backside and happily lets Dean take him again there on the floor, as all thoughts of Josie again slip from his mind. The solid surface beneath them bruises Castiel’s hips and collarbone as Dean thrusts into him, but the marks left behind are a welcome reminder of who he now belongs to.

\---

When it is time for Castiel to make his way home, he finds that, despite having his arse filled so many times in the last twelve hours, he is fully invigorated and greets the bright day with enthusiasm. He chooses to walk back to his estate at Arlington, stopping only to sit for a cup of tea at the small cafe near the studio.

It is there that he runs into Samuel--and in a quite literal sense, for as he turns to find a table to sit at, the towering man is standing there and Castiel nearly knocks his forehead on the solid chin of the younger Winchester.

“Mind the grease, good sir!” Samuel jests with a smile and laugh. “Allow me to purchase your meal?”

They sit together and chat, and it is a fine thing for Castiel to finally be able to know the man. He is a well-to-do solicitor for City of London. And while there is prestige in the position, it is not one that would grant him access to the most highly fashionable places in the city. It is from his brother’s great artistic capabilities that they have been welcomed among the elite--and their deep love for the libertine lifestyle has made sure they are truly welcome within the inner circle of the society.

Samuel is quite handsome to look at, though his features are sharper than Dean’s--and far more masculine. There are no soft, feminine qualities to this man at all--he is solid and muscular, as if he had spent his life as a blacksmith or laborer. Castiel knows this to not be true, so the man must have some other means to have built up his physique. 

“Castiel?”

Castiel blinks and realizes that he had drifted off in his thoughts, not entirely paying attention. “I do apologize, but it seems I am to sit and admire your physical presence when I should be listening.” Castiel bites his lip in what he knows to be an appealing manner and thinks that he should like to have this man pin him down and take him.

Sam puffs out a little laugh then with heavily lidded eyes and smirk upon his lips says, “Is that an invitation?”

“It most certainly is.”

They hastily leave the cafe and hail down a carman with a cabbie logo painted garishly on the side of his coach, then direct the man to Castiel’s estate. The entire ride, the two men cannot keep their hands off one another, thankful for the black, drawn curtains the carriage is equipped with to seclude them from the outside world and prying eyes. Samuel is rough and demanding, and Castiel is the picture of impatience by the time the coachman stops and they must pay the man for his services.

Their clothing is practically torn from each other’s bodies by the time they make it to Castiel’s bed. The servants make themselves scarce, as they know to do when Castiel has a guest. Though, from the corner of his eye, he can see Adam standing aside and watching as the two disrobe in their haste, a small frown destroying his good looks. Castiel eyes him briefly, thinking to possibly invite him into the bedroom with them, but Samuel takes that notion away from him as he pushes Castiel through the threshold and slams the bedroom door behind them. 

Samuel lifts Castiel up only to throw him face first onto the bed. He has no time to shift a muscle before Samuel is on top of him and shoving deep within his posteriors with a brutality that is fitting of some wild beast. Castiel lets out a choked scream as the man fucks him, wildly, roughly and without restraint. He is helpless beneath Samuel and finds he loves every moment of the viciousness acted upon his body.

Samuel has the vigor and stamina of twelve men, and far before he finds his release, Castiel feels an odd sensation--as if a part of his bowel is escaping his body each time Samuel withdraws. He is tender and puffy, and knows his back passage is likely damaged, but he feels no urgency in stopping Samuel. 

When Samuel finally pulls out, Castiel is lying in a pool of his own fadings and urine and feels as if he should like to never move again. He can feel a trickle of Samuel’s release spill from his gaping backside and groans. He reaches a hand back to gingerly feel at his entrance to see what damage has been done, but before he can get there, Samuel grabs his hand away and pins it to the bed. Large fingers unceremoniously enter him, two by two, and then a thumb. Castiel is stuck breathless as Samuel coaxes his whole hand within Castiel’s body. When his breath is returned, Castiel lets out another scream, but Samuel’s hand that is not currently inside of him reaches around, gagging him with large fingers in his mouth.

Castiel can feel spittle sliding down his chin as Samuel fucks him with a closed fist. If he thought the man’s cock was a force of nature, he quite decidedly thought wrong now that he knows the power of his hands. There is nothing Castiel has ever felt that can measure to the horrid pain and simultaneous pleasure he feels.

By the time Samuel is finished with him, ripping his hand away from Castiel’s body with immeasurable force, Castiel is a sobbing wreck, his face covered in tears and snot which he burrows into the bedclothes. Even that small movement causes him such a degree of discomfort and exhaustion that he nearly passes out. He can feel how swollen his back passage is, but doesn’t have the strength to lift a hand to investigate the full damage. He falls asleep.

When he wakes again, Samuel has gone and Castiel’s body is stiff and tender, though he does not feel as much pain as he thinks he ought to. Who would have thought that Dean’s smiling and polite brother would be such a beast! And as damaged as his body is, Castiel cannot regret inviting him into his bed.

He tries to roll over and winces as pressure is put on his bruised body. He feebly calls for Adam--who must have been standing just outside the door, for the man enters immediately. “I cannot move. You must give me a whore’s bath.”

Castiel does not move his head to see the man’s expression, but based on the long pause before a feeble, “Yes, sir,” Castiel can only imagine he is an awful sight.

Adam returns shortly with a basin of warm water and a soft linen cloth and begins wiping the sweat and semen from Castiel’s body, clearly avoiding his arse. “How bad is it?”

Another hesitation before Adam speaks. “I--it seems your bowel has distended to show itself outside your body… I should call for the doctor.” Adam begins to stand up, but Castiel stops him.

“No no, it will be fine. Can’t you just push it back in?”

Adam: “…”

After a long moment of silence, Castiel can feel warm fingers prodding at his ruined backside as Adam coaxes the wayward bowels back within Castiel’s body. Each time Adam removes his hands, Castiel can feel the tissue puffing back out. “I think the muscle has quit. Perhaps if you concentrate on squeezing shut?” Adam shoves at the bowel again and Castiel squeezes around the man’s fingers.

“Well?”

“It’s not working…” Adam sounds slightly panicked, but Castiel feels nothing but absolute calm. It is quite curious that he is not concerned over this malady.

“Enough. I will sleep more and rest my muscles and we can try again in the morning. Now, help get some dry bedclothes under me. These sheets are filthy.”

Adam does what he is told, taking the soiled linens away and replacing them with freshly laundered bedclothes, rolling Castiel’s limp body this way and that as he works around him. When Adam leaves the room again, Castiel falls into a deep and dreamless sleep.

When he awakes with the dawn the following morning, he is completely healed. No traces of bruising from Dean, and no trace of the damage caused by his romp with Samuel. He stands up and stretches and feels fresh and healthy, no twinge or ache remaining. It is true what they say; that a good night’s sleep is a balm for many an ailment. 

\---

Castiel has taken a liking to walking around London and seldom takes his coach when he leaves his estate. When he is on foot, he can meet any number of fellows not limited to the genteel and finds he enjoys the variety of classes. He has not ventured yet into the slums, for he knows he will stand out too greatly amongst the crowd there, but he finds that he quite enjoys some of the seedier places.

At night he finds himself in gambling halls and little night clubs where women sing and dance on stage. And during the day he walks among street vendors and markets where all manner of delightful food and trinkets can be purchased. But the thing he found that he likes the very best is the “house of horrors” of Camden Town. Miss Mary Jeffries is a procurer of young women and has many fine brothels set up around the London boroughs, but her small house where the delights of sadomasochism may be found in abundance is the most appealing by far.

It is there in the flickering gaslights and roiling fog of Camden that Castiel sees the woman--Duma if he recalls the name Dean gave correctly--through an open window on the top floor of the shabby building. She looks down at him serenely, though there is something in her eyes that is troubling, something screaming out for a better life.

Intrigued by her presence at Miss Jeffries’ establishment, Castiel enters and immediately requests the girl’s services. He pays the madame, then is taken up to the third floor where he is led to a locked door. He is given the key so he may lock the door again from within, then is left to his devices. He opens the door then locks it again behind himself. Duma still stands at the window, not speaking, and so Castiel takes a moment to survey the room. 

There are all manner of restraints hooked to the walls and bed, and a variety of tools laid out on an old bureau for the sadist and masochist, alike. Castiel immediately grows hard thinking of all the things he is allowed to do in this place, but first must ask the question.

“Why did you follow me through Picadilly the other day? Surely there was a grander adventure to be had by a woman such as yourself.”

Duma turns around to look at him and he can see her clearly, despite the dim lights of the room. She is quite striking with exotic features that he recognizes from his time as a child in Spain. She must have been one of the many who came to the country seeking new prospects and found that there were none to be had other than lifting her skirts for the occasional gentleman. Such is the lot for many unwed women.

“Call it a whim if you will. I was allowed a day out to do what I wished and found myself wandering the streets of the well-to-do. When I spied you, I had recalled seeing you at the Morningstar estate, and again at Lord McLeod’s--I was there to give pleasure to those who sought it--but, you seemed only to have an eye for the other gentlemen, despite having a baroness on your arm. And so I found myself oddly fascinated and wondered if there was a woman who would catch your eye. I apologize for having overstepped.”

Castiel hums as he eyes her figure. She is well proportioned with ample curve to her hip and bosom and does not seem to be suffering from malnutrition, the way many of the street blowsies do. “I would not say my eyes are only for men. But you must agree that there is a certain satisfaction in being held by strong arms while being fucked into oblivion.”

He looks up and catches a skeptical glint in her brown eyes. “If you say so, sir.”

Castiel hums again. “Perhaps not so much when it is simply a job to be done? Do you get bored of your profession?” He sits on the edge of the small bed, in poor condition and the mattress full of lumps beneath his arse, and motions for her to sit beside him. She inclines her head, then glides from the window, arranging her bustle before sitting. 

“Oh, there is rarely any boredom to be had in this house of sin. The action is never-ending, it seems.” She smiles at him, though it holds no mirth--perhaps even a touch of sadness--and Castiel has to wonder if she truly came to work at this place of her own accord. He supposes the truth of it matters little to him, for they are both there and he has paid handsomely for her time. He only hopes that she gets another fine day to galavant about the city. It would be a shame to be cooped up in such a dreary place day in and day out.

Castiel has had enough of chitchat, though, and so stands up to begin removing his clothing as Duma sits on the bed and watches him with a wary eye. “You spoke of action, lady. Shall we begin?”

He can see her sigh as she stands and begins unbuttoning the front of her gown, her eyes darting to the various implements of pain laid out before them, surely wondering what sort of sick plans Castiel has in mind. He has no intentions of using any of them on her, however, and can see the utmost surprise in her face when he lies down on the bed before her and stretches his arms out towards the restraints. “You are the master here tonight, and I am but your slave. Do what you will.”

Castiel does not regret his decision to relinquish all control to the woman, for she is clever with the tools, but is not of the mind to leave lasting damage. He knows he will be seeking out her company again.

\---

The week goes by in a blur. Between Dean, Adam, and Duma, Castiel has every need he could possibly fathom met--except those vivid fantasies he yet holds of the elusive Ms Sands, who yet remains abroad on whatever business it was she had to attend.

And despite the lack of company from the woman who introduced him to the lifestyle, Castiel feels as if nothing could possibly go better for him.

Dean paints another portrait of him, and they lay awake at night speaking of what the future may hold. When he is at home, he has Adam laid out beneath him, writhing and screaming his name. And those days when Dean is otherwise indisposed, he sees Duma, who throughout her years in the trade has mastered the art of a skillful ride. Yet, even with having such a full schedule of intimate relations, he never feels spent for long. Perhaps it is time to up the stakes.

It is a lazy Thursday evening when Castiel takes Adam again. He has yet to do anything particularly out of the ordinary with the man--if buggery in and of itself is not included in that sentiment--and so decides to restrain him to get more for a feel of the dominant side of passion.

Adam responds quite positively when Castiel slaps at him and holds him down with ropes, and it is a most liberating feeling. The pure realization that Castiel could hold this young man’s life in his very hands drives him into a wild frenzy. He wraps his hands around his throat. Adam makes a face of pure delight, despite the vein that pops out from his forehead. Castiel squeezes harder as he loses himself in the rhythm--the pounding of his own body against Adam’s.

When Adam looks to lose consciousness, eyes glassy and staring but not seeing, Castiel cannot make himself stop, so wrapped up in the heat and cadence of skin slapping against skin. When he finally blows and collapses against the man, Adam feels like a limp noodle beneath him, unmoving and all pliant limbs. He continues to stare up at the ceiling, mouth slightly open, but no breath to escape. Castiel places a soft kiss against those lips and feels the utmost affection for him--that he so willingly chose to give this greatest gift. Castiel falls asleep sprawled out over him, knowing that Adam would never dare complain of discomfort.

When Castiel awakes the next morning, Adam is stiff and unmoving beneath him, though Castiel can feel the engorged flesh of his manhood poking into his thigh. Castiel laughs, “Well, aren’t you ready bright and early? I appreciate your enthusiasm!” Adam simply stares at the ceiling. 

He eagerly climbs up the man and seats himself on Adam’s length, impaling himself deeply. Castiel begins to move, imitating the way Duma writhes on top of him, moving his hips up and down in such a way that with each downward movement, that sweet bundle of nerves is struck. Adam lies motionless, letting Castiel take what he wants. He staves off his impending release for as long as he can, but it comes upon him all too quickly. He collapses forward and kisses Adam’s lips, which feel far more stiff than they had the evening prior.

“You look like wax. Perhaps you should stop starting and attend to your health. But first, you must help me dress.” Castiel stands up and looks down at the man, still lying in the same position. “Oh, I see, you stubborn oaf. It seems as if I am to dress myself this day?”

Adam does not respond, of course.

“You ought to open your mouth and speak when spoken to. I am your employer after all... Very well! But I shall lock this door when I leave, and you can continue to lie there and think about the hardship you are putting me through!” 

Castiel chuckles to himself as he takes out clothing from his wardrobe and dresses himself. He knows Adam cannot truly hear him, but it amuses him to no end to tease the poor fellow. 

Castiel looks back again at the corpse in his bed and sighs. He isn’t sure why he has done this thing, or why he feels no remorse for taking this life. Perhaps he is simply going mad! Regardless, it will surely hurt no one to leave him there for a while. 

As he turns to leave, something catches his eye. The portrait of himself lounging on the chaise with that come hither expression painted in his eyes--something is not quite right. He is no less beautiful, but it seems as if something has changed. It is almost sinister, though Castiel cannot quite fathom how it is different. 

Castiel shrugs it off and walks from the room, leaving Adam to rot amidst the spunk stained linens. Castiel greets the new day with a spring in his step.

\---

Now, what could Josie possibly be doing? It has been nearly two weeks with no word from her, and Castiel is beginning to worry that she has befallen some ill. Her servants are less than useless, for if they even answer the door at all--which is not guaranteed--they tersely state, “She is not here.” Castiel is becoming frustrated with the amount of times the door has been closed on his poor, handsome face.

When he asks Dean about it, he jokes about having to attend to her legions in hell, but Castiel does not find it particularly funny. She is an angel, to be true. What legions of damned could she possibly command? If she seeks to command anyone, let it be him. Castiel is, and always will be, at her beck and call.

Castiel is feeling itchy and bored. He would like nothing more than to have a decadent evening with Josie. But since she cannot be found, he takes his frustrations out on Duma. Instead of letting her have a nice ride as they have been accustomed to, he ties her down and flogs her bare ass until she cries. She is visibly upset with him, but it is no more than she is used to in her profession, and so he can feel no guilt for it. Though he does let her hit him bloody as they fuck in repayment. Shedding his blood seems to settle her nerves.

Two days later, Dean finally calls on him at his estate, and Castiel is pleased that the man should show up. He enjoys Dean’s studio, but there is something right about having Dean in his bed and he can barely contain himself as he pulls the laughing man up the stairs.

When they breach the threshold of his bedroom, Dean pauses and makes a face of disgust. “Cas?”

“What?” Castiel nearly yells. His feeling jittery, like he wants to crawl out of his own skin and is instantly annoyed that Dean should wish to have a discussion prior to the mind-blowing coitus he knows they are about to partake in.

“Cas!” Dean points to the bed, and Castiel looks to Adam, still lying there like the useless lump he now is. He shrugs and looks back to Dean, repeating himself. “What?”

“Cas, what is this? It stinks to high heaven. I must insist that we remove this corpse immediately. If you are going to take a life, you must know how to handle the consequences of such actions. Really, Cas, leaving him to rot like this? In your own home?”

He is scolded like a child. Castiel mopes.

“Oh, but that is my most trusted valet! Surely I could not get rid of him simply for being dead. I mean, truly, his current state is hardly his own fault.” Castiel crosses his arms petulantly as Dean furrows his brow, directing him with a chastising glare.

Then Dean sighs and relents. “Fine, he stays for now. I will have it taken care of when the sun is set.”

Castiel grins in his victory, then throws Dean to the bed, careful not to get any of the leaking corpse juices on Dean’s perfect skin. The bed is plenty large for all of them, and Adam does not mind sharing the space.

\---

When Castiel awakes the following morning he sees that both Dean and Adam are gone. It really is quite generous of Dean to take care of such a wretched task, though Castiel feels a touch of sorrow for himself that his bed is now quite empty, as he had grown accustomed to the vague sickly-sweet scent of rotting meat that had accompanied Adam. 

He throws a dressing gown over his naked body, then makes his way to the door, glancing briefly at his portrait. It is hard not to smile when he looks at just how beautiful he is. But something still feels off about it. Upon closer inspection, it seems as if a small lump is growing from his cheek. It is hardly noticeable without a close-up look, but it bothers Cas nonetheless. It must be a spot where the paint has dried strangely. He sighs and turns away, quickly walking down the stairs to find if the servants have prepared a meal for him yet. Perhaps Dean can fix it later.

All thoughts of the painting drift away as Castiel hears the clamour of a carriage entering the neighboring estate. He quickly flies to the window and peaks outside. Josie has returned and Castiel is overjoyed! They have quite a bit of catching up to do and he cannot wait to hear what adventure she has been up to.


	12. Chapter 12

With Josie returning from her trip abroad, Castiel finds that he wishes for nothing more than to spend the day galavanting about town with her. And despite her having only arrived the day prior, she looks fresh and well-rested when he comes to knock on her door.

The butler lets him in and leads him to a study where Josie sits at a desk writing upon a document with a pen that she dips into a fine abalone inlaid ink well. When she hears him enter, she blots her page, then stands up to greet him.

Castiel scoops her up and swings her around in circles, hardly able to contain his glee at seeing her. “What took you so long? You left without a word and I found myself having to seek out other company. Shame on you!” He playfully scolds her, then sets her down. She is all laughs and smiles.

“Oh, sweet boy. You know I breed dogs?” Castiel did not know, but nods his head for her to continue. “Well, there is a fellow up in York with the most wonderful Tibetan Mastiffs! I have managed to talk him out of his bitch and the most prized stud. He did not want to let them go at first, but I can be most persuasive!”

Castiel laughs at the truth in that statement, “Oh yes, most persuasive! And where are these dogs? May I see them?”

“Ah, but they are kept at Maidenhead where I have an estate with ample gardens and grass for them to run free in. Greater London is no place to keep such large beasts! But I shall make sure you are introduced soon!”

They continue their chitchat at a public house near Knightsbridge called the Nag’s Head and have themselves a perpendicular of lamb stew. It is beneath their station to eat at the pubs, but with it being so near to a relatively fashionable area, there are more well-to-do folks in attendance than one would find in the eastern burroughs, and so they don’t stick out so sorely. Though Castiel finds that he enjoys the rough and rowdy nature of those born with less fortune, and so he is happy to stand beside Josie and eat their meal like those more common. 

“I will be having a ball at my estate for the club this Friday. I do hope you will be in attendance!” Josie dabs at her red lips with the edge of a napkin and sets her half-empty bowl on the bar for the aproner to collect, her eyes shining at Castiel with mischief.

“You hadn’t said! Have you been planning this for long?”

Josie laughs. “Of course not! It is impromptu for only the most desired and elite. I must show off my new purchase.”

“Of course I will be there.” Then a thought comes to Castiel. He has been restless and needing  _ something _ , though the what of it is elusive to him. Perhaps a change to his station is what is needed. “Let’s say I did not wish to attend as a master. What then?”

A look of delighted surprise comes across Josie’s face. “Oh. Well. That would be a most interesting night, I can imagine.”

And so Castiel makes a decision to be a servant to the rest of the upper-crust London libertines. He is eager to find what wicked pleasures they will bestow upon his willing flesh.

\---

Castiel is mildly frustrated by the end of the day. Josie has yet to let him touch her--other than the night she and Dean shared a place together within his posteriors. He wants to become better acquainted with her body--and that glorious cock--but she remains untouchable somehow. And so he finds himself yet again at Gray’s Inn Road of Camden at Mary Jeffries' chamber of horrors. Duma is, as always, pleased to see him.

When they finish with their coupling and are lying on the lumpy mattress, limbs entangled and sticky with release, Duma speaks freely. “Would you consider the possibility that I could go with you? It is no life here, and I know that for the right coin, Ms Jeffries would release me into your care.”

Castiel does not wish to commit to such a thing, as he thinks she would only get in the way of his lifestyle should she move to his estate, but plays his words to suit her wishes. “Ah, and what would you do if you should come with me? I would not have you sit bored whilst I am away at my activities.”

“Oh, but I would make a very good wife. I would attend to your servants and oversee the household. And I would be no chore to have around, and promise to never be a scold or nag.”

Castiel makes a conscious effort to not roll his eyes. Of course the woman would fall in love with him--he knows he is irresistible to folk of all stations, men and women alike. “Wouldn’t that be grand to have a wife such as you! But I’m afraid I couldn’t, as I must maintain my status as one of the most prestigious men in the country and cannot marry beneath my station. Perhaps I shall remain unwed and keep you as mistress of the estates.”

Duma frowns for a moment, her beautiful features scrunched up in thought. “I suppose. Though if we were married in secret, none would be the wiser and you could maintain your bachelor status to those with influence. Outwardly, nothing would have to change.”

No. That would not do. “It is something to think on, lady.” 

He does not think he will come back to see Duma again. Now that she has fallen in love with him, he finds that her appeal has lost its luster.

\---

The night of the ball creeps up on Castiel faster than he would have thought. He is all nervous excitement and anticipates that it will be a most wonderful affair. He takes out his best suit, calling for Adam to attend him. When the man does not come, Castiel lets out an annoyed growl. “Of course! Leave me to take care of myself, yet again! Who will make my hair look so dapper?” He supposes that he will be mussed in short order, so he does not bother and lets his unruly curls have their own way. He knows it makes him even more attractive, but sometimes the ostentatious pretense of being “just so” is necessary. It perhaps is not needed tonight.

He foregoes wearing a mask and shows up at Josie’s door with his face uncovered, indicating that he will not be there as a master--that he is there at the beck and call of the libertines. 

There are already a fair number of guests mingling about the great room, and as he is led within, all eyes turn to him and his unmasked face. He can immediately see the curiosity behind the eyes of those who keep their faces hidden as a low murmur resumes amongst them. He has been unattainable to most as of yet, but he can almost hear the gears turning in their simple minds, trying to figure out what his play is--and if they will have the chance to dine on his supple flesh this evening. Castiel silently promises them all not to disappoint.

It does not take long for a group of the disguised guests to approach him. They take him by the arms and gently guide him to a room that has been emptied of all furnishings except for a variety of tables and chairs with hooks and straps, all set up for the sadomasochistic crafts they are all there to partake in.

Dozens of hands caress his body and slowly undress him. A crowd gathers in the room. Tongues and fingers glide across each new piece of exposed skin, and Castiel moans out at the feeling of so many at once. The lookers who have gathered around him all have desire plainly written in their eyes, and Castiel knows that his night will be full--as will likely his arse.

Indeed, it seems as if hours pass with the multitudes grasping and fucking and screaming out their glorious sins and Castiel lies panting as yet another enters his body. 

He can see Dean in the corner of the room wearing a most unwelcome scowl, muddling his beautiful features. Dean just stands there and watches--will not take his eyes off of Cas, but will not come near. Castiel barely has the brainpower to wonder at the unhappy expression, and so it is a fleeting thought.

Whoever was above him finishes and moves away. Castiel forces himself off his belly and up onto all fours. He watches Dean watching him. Sam comes up behind Dean and wraps his arms around his brother, licking a long, wet stripe against his neck. Dean tilts his head to better fit Sam to his body. Sam also watches Castiel. It is most eerie to Cas to have both sets of eyes on him, searing into his soul--unblinking and unwavering.

Someone pours something sticky to his backside, and Castiel can smell the subtle, musky sweetness of honey. And then there is a soft tongue, far too long and wide to be human, lapping the sweets from his posteriors. He can feel soft fur tickling the backs of his thighs, and Castiel shivers at how different the sensation is. 

Once the honey is licked clean, the massive dog mounts him--he does not look back, but can only assume it is the Tibetan Mastiff stud Josie spoke of the other day. Castiel can barely keep himself up on his hands and knees due to the pure size and weight of the beast and rocks precariously as the thing clumsily enters him. There is no grace or finesse to it, or easing in. Just mindless and instant rutting.

Castiel keeps his eyes on Dean, as much as he would like to close them and focus on what is being done to him. Samuel moves his hand down and into Dean’s trousers, grasping at his flesh with lazy tugs. The scowl on Dean’s face eases a fraction as Samuel guides him to lean over a nearby table and pulls his trousers down past his hips. Neither takes their eyes from Castiel, and Samuel smiles wickedly as he works himself inside his brother.

Dean does not smile, or moan, or make the pleasure face that Castiel has grown so accustomed to. He simply takes what he is given with no complaint or distinct reaction. But then Samuel whispers something in Dean’s ear as he buries his cock deep inside him. Dean suddenly looks furious, like thunder clouds could gather under that hateful gaze and unleash a gale to destroy them all. Samuel laughs, and it is not a nice sound. Then he fucks Dean in earnest, nearly making his brother lose his footing, Dean grasping at the table with white knuckles and rage in his eyes.

Castiel cannot fathom the fury in which the brothers express themselves, Dean with the face of pure demonic rage, and Samuel with his maniacal laugh and perfect savagery. They exude violence in their cores. 

Castiel’s arms give out as the mastiff positions it’s massive paws to his back, and his face is forced to the ground. He can feel teeth biting onto the back of his neck as a powerful jaw holds him in place. He loses eye contact with the brothers. The dog plows into him in its beastly ferocity. 

And then all goes black.

\---

  
  


When Cas awakes the next morning, there is something assuredly off about his portrait. What at first looked to be a smudge, or bubbling of the paint, now shows something far more eerie. A fully formed nose has emerged from the smudge and there is the ghost of another eye. His portrait is growing a second, most sinister-looking face. Castiel tries to scrape the offending features away with a knife, but as he does so, his own cheek starts to bleed. The damage done to the painting shows itself on his own skin! 

Castiel stands there, gobsmacked, holding his bloody cheek and looks on in horror as the painting starts to mend itself before his very eyes. As the painting slowly heals itself, so does his cheek, no scar or marks of any kind remain. 


	13. Chapter 13

Castiel cannot find Dean. It has been days since Josie’s affair and the man simply cannot be got. Castiel has the sense that he is being avoided, but for what reason, Cas can only speculate. Could it be that Dean is jealous? He thought they had an understanding between them. Castiel’s heart and soul belong to the man, but never his body. 

He has lunch with Josie at her estate and he asks her advice. Their courtship has been most extraordinary--Josie can play at being his lover, his mother, and his best friend all at once. And never has she been jealous of his attention towards others. She is a prize that Castiel deeply cherishes. It is a hard thing to determine whether he loves her or Dean better.

“The man is too delicate, Castiel. We have been together for far longer than I can count and it has always been so. When his heart is set on something, he becomes strange and possessive. He will eventually see the error in his thinking. Give it time.”

Time. Castiel wishes he still had the patience he learned as a youth, but he has become so accustomed to instant gratification that the thought of giving Dean time to adjust is a horrible concept to him. He feels fidgety. He needs something--anything--to stop the buzzing throughout his body and mind.

\---

Castiel ignores Josie’s advice and heads towards Dean’s studio. The man is not there, nor has he been seen at the libertine clubhouse. Castiel has no idea where to look and finds himself in a mild fit of the morbs. He wants nothing more than to take Dean apart and watch as those green eyes do remarkable things in their passion. It is an addiction to Castiel far stronger than anything any other has shown him. He needs Dean.

Castiel’s morbs transform into a petulant fit of indignation. If Dean wishes to shoot beams of hatred from his eyes all night, then avoid Castiel for days on end, then Castiel will give him something to be pissy about and perhaps get the man to see the folly in his actions (or lack thereof). Without further thought, his feet take him into the heart of Camden where he knows Duma will welcome him with open arms.

She again presses the issue of marriage, beseeching Castiel to take her away from the lifestyle she is forced to live. And though he wants nothing to do with such a thing, he does not turn her down outright. He will have to think of the proper way to go about this. He wants Dean, no matter the cost, but he must remain in Duma’s good graces in case he should ever need to show her off on his arm.

Being with Duma does little to satisfy the itch under his skin, and so after their coupling, he quickly leaves and decides to spend some of his inheritance at the gambling halls. Perhaps it is a different sort of thrill he needs for the night. 

Castiel has become accustomed to walking everywhere--he enjoys the fresh air on his skin and the myriad sights London has to offer around every twist and turn of her glorious streets--and so forgoes hiring a coach. It is a mile to the nearest hall and will not take him long to arrive. 

He makes it no more than two streets before a sack is thrown over his head. He can smell the cloth saturated in some sweet, rum-scented liquid that quickly makes him lose his thoughts. He sags into the arms of whoever is standing behind him, then can feel himself being lifted and hauled into a carriage. His limbs fight to flail out and struggle, but he cannot move. Castiel falls fast asleep as the car lurches forward with the crack of the horse’s reins. 

\---

When he comes to, Castiel feels sluggish and high. Colors are bright and vivid and a feeling of lazy euphoria submerges his body like a warm bath. His glassy eyes blink several times, trying hard to figure out his surroundings. The place looks familiar, but he is not yet coherent enough to know it. 

“Oh! My sweet boy. I’m so glad you’ve come back to me.” The voice is familiar and so are the hands that caress his face. Castiel tries to move his arms, wanting to grasp onto that hand and hold it still, but it seems as if he is bound. He cannot move more than an inch, for there is little slack to the ropes about his wrists. 

“Now, now, you know I don’t like it when you move around. Be still and you won’t be punished.” Castiel thrashes, consequences be damned. Arthur looks down at him with his stupidly smug face and tsks. All for show. Castiel knows Arthur gets off from doling out his sick punishments. 

Castiel has a revelation that makes him laugh with glee, hysterical as it is. He has no fear of Arthur or what the man has in store for him. “You twisted little prick, you best hope I die here today. Else you will, in turn, suffer greatly!” Castiel spits in the man’s face.

Rage turns Arthur’s face a bright shade of red and he strikes Castiel hard across the face with the back of his hand. Cas can feel blood trickle down his chin from the split in his lip. He licks it clean and smiles. Even if the man has his way with him again, Castiel won’t let him do so without a fight. 

Arthur abandons whatever scheme he had brewing and shoves his trousers down. He is clumsy in his anger and digs his fingers in awkwardly as he wedges himself between Castiel’s legs. Castiel thrashes about as best as he can in his restraints, and while it makes it all the more difficult for Arthur, it does nothing to stop the man from entering forcefully into Castiel’s posteriors.

As unwieldy as Arthur is with his sword, it reminds Castiel of nothing so much as Josie’s dog. He laughs in his amusement, though there is no mirth behind the sound. The stud had far more finesse to his movements. 

Arthur does not like being laughed at and pauses his graceless motions to beat at Castiel’s face with a fist. He can feel blood gushing from his nose and the sting of it brings water to Castiel’s eyes. Arthur smiles. The fool must think he has brought Castiel to tears of emotion, but Cas knows he has nothing of the sort within him to be released. He spits blood at Arthur. Castiel prefers the man angry and violent. 

Castiel continues laughing as Arthur thrashes about with his pathetic cock. Then he forces his mind to be still. He pictures the gruesome ending he will give to Arthur--the crimson, metallic stickiness of his blood coating his body as he bleeds out from a thousand wounds. Castiel pictures stomping on his skull with a bare foot, delighting in the feel of the bone fragments puncturing his skin; a wonderful contrast to the softness of brain matter oozing between his toes. 

Castiel focuses his dark intent on the bindings around his arms and legs, putting all of his energy into being released. He can feel a wave of something blindingly black roil through his body, a great shadow crossing his vision. His eyes go black.

Castiel suddenly feels as if all the power in the universe is at his fingertips, needing only a place to be released. He directs it at Arthur. The man goes flying back.

Castiel sits up, his bindings burned away. 

He releases the potential energy built up inside himself and points it all at Arthur… but nothing happens. Whatever he did to escape his binds is apparently not under his control, though he can feel the inkiness remain over his eyes. 

Arthur cowers as Castiel stands tall, back straight and chin held high. The shadows of two massive black wings unfurl behind Castiel, giving him the appearance of some fallen angel--a creature of destruction and rage. As Castiel lunges for Arthur, he can feel his face contorting into something wicked--something unholy, sharp teeth dripping with venom from a gaping maw--and he feels nothing but pure, wonderful hatred. It is so cathartic that Castiel nearly finds his release on the spot.

Arthur screams.

\--

It is not a hard thing to subdue Arthur. Castiel is powerful--never has he felt such strength in his life. Despite this, he works slowly, no longer relying on his superior strength, but honing his finesse for cruelty. 

Fingernails are the first thing to go, slowly pried off, one by one. Castiel becomes dizzy from the euphoria he feels and has to clutch the bedside table tight as his breath comes fast. He never knew the sounds of such agony could be so sweet.

He moves on to the electrocution wand Arthur had used on him during one of their previous engagements, making sure to pay extra attention to all of the most sensitive areas--especially the tender pads where fingernails once grew. Arthur does not seem to like it any more than Castiel had, which is of no real surprise. The sadist does not like his own medicine. 

Castiel continues working Arthur over for what seems like hours, though Castiel cannot be certain that time has even passed. It is still dark outside, and all is still. Castiel wonders how all those ignorant paupers out there would react if they knew what dark things occurred behind the doors of the elite. 

Something he does makes Arthur begin choking on the pooling saliva in his mouth, unable to catch his breath. Castiel frowns. It simply will not do to let the man drown on himself before Castiel is finished. Arthur is too weak to fight back at this point, so Castiel lets one of his arms free so the man can partially sit. He allows him to cough until his lungs are clear, then goes back to work.

All the cries, all the anguish he is causing, has Castiel undeniably aroused. It is time for his release--he has waited long enough. He takes a folding knife Arthur had stowed about his garments and brandishes it in the man’s face. Arthur closes his eyes tight, but Castiel wishes to watch the horror unveiled in those dark orbs. He cuts the skin away, leaving Arthur with two gaping sores where his lids had been, eyes wildly rolling about in his skull. 

Castiel shoves the knife deep into one socket--though not too deep as to kill the brain outright-- with pink vitriol leaking from the wound like sludge. The horror shows plainly in Arthurs one remaining eye. Good--Castiel looks back to the stab wound and watches it ooze in fascination. It is reminiscent of the books he sometimes snuck as a youth--descriptions of hauntings and the ectoplasmic residue left behind by angry spirits. If Arthur is a ghost, can he be killed again?

Castiel mounts Arthur’s screaming face, then mercilessly slides his stiff member into the gaping socket, through the destroyed eye. It is a snug fit, but nothing Castiel cannot fix with some coaxing of his knife. It does not take long for Arthur to cease his thrashing and become deathly still. And it is no wonder--the brain matter must have taken an awful mangling to make enough space to fit Castiel within. He grasps Arthur by the hair and hoists his head to a position more suited to receive Castiel’s thrusting hips, then fucks the man’s skull with every bit of vim he can muster. 

When his fadings finally come to him, Castiel throws back his head and screams. It is by far the most intense release he has ever found. 

He slowly disengages from Arthur’s skull, breathing hard and sweating--his hands shake. Castiel lies on top of the corpse for several moments before he is collected enough to stand. He leaves the room and enters the adjoining washroom where the familiar copper tub sits, currently empty of all water. Castiel looks down at his body and sees that all of his hair is still firmly attached to his body. Arthur must not have gotten around to that part.

Castiel turns the tap and finds that perfectly hot water begins to fill the basin. The marvels of this new plumbing! Only a few years ago it was standard that anyone, even the wealthy, who wished to bathe in hot water would have to do so by boiling it all--else go to the hot springs for holiday. What a treat! Castiel smiles as the tub fills, thinking that he ought to hire some men from the city to refit his own washroom. 

He digs around the cupboard he remembered Arthur stowing his things in and finds the shaving kit. He takes out the razor, brush and lather, and the nice scented oil for dabbing himself with after, then sits down in the tub with a satisfied sigh as the warm water caresses his bloody skin. 

Castiel relaxes for a moment, then begins meticulously removing all of the hair from his body, leaving only his eyebrows and that which grows on the top of his head. He isn’t sure why the desire to do so has overcome him--perhaps it does not feel right to leave this place as he came in. It is the ritual to be shorn, and so it is what Castiel does. 

By the time Castiel is finished and has himself dried off, all of his wounds have healed. He isn’t certain of the how or why of it, but he suspects this new healing capability has something to do with Dean, for the painting seems to be at the heart of it all. Castiel thinks that those of the society are not all what they seem--perhaps not even human at all!--but it is a remarkable gift he has been given, so he will not cower in fear from whatever manner of creatures they may be. 

He returns to the bedroom and finds his clothing neatly stacked on a chair in the corner, and begins to dress himself. Once he is back into his clothing, he bows deeply to Arthur’s mangled corpse. “I must thank you, sir. You have given me precisely what I needed this evening! This growing itch beneath my skin feels curbed for the first time in a while, and I owe it all to you that I now know what it is I need.” 

Arthur’s death certainly has satisfied that need he didn’t know how to fill--and in hindsight, Adam’s death had also fulfilled him in a similar way--though he still feels a touch of the lingering itch inside of himself. And so he sets out to the nearest Molly house to see what sport he can find. Perhaps Arthur is not the only soul this evening who is willing to give themselves to Castiel’s needs. 


	14. Chapter 14

Moorfields has always been historically known for the molly houses and inverts abound--men showing their legs in scandalous feminine fashion for a bit of coin, or simply for a lark. And though many of the famous places had long since been raided and closed for good, Castiel still finds his feet taking him to the east end to see if there are any thrills of the sort to be found.

He is not disappointed. He follows a young woman down the street--a woman a bit tall and broad of shoulder to be truly born as such--and finds himself in a packed little tavern filled with all sorts of marvelous creatures. 

There is a small stage where two men and a dwarf are performing in the latest of French lady’s fashion, garish rouge upon their lips and cheeks, and decked out in fine-looking costume jewels. They dance and behave lewdly; it is comedic and sensual and borders on vaudeville. Castiel finds himself immediately intrigued. 

The place is filled with smoke. Castiel can smell the distinct musk of cigar and the sharp tartness of marijuana mixed in with the smoothness of cigarettes. Many patrons are enjoying absinthe as they laugh and make merry with their companions and the sweet anise blends wonderfully to compliment the variety of smells. 

Castiel stands there taking it all in for only a moment before he is dragged to a crowded table of patrons to join in their revelry. Castiel accepts graciously with a large smile, then pays a beautiful young man with his face painted white for an absinthe placement of his own. 

He is lost momentarily in the change of color of the absinthe from dark green to something milky as the water drips through his sugar cube. It is a fascinating change to witness the chemical reaction of the liquor upon being introduced to another substance. He tells the table, quite profoundly. “I, myself, am like this glass. Green from youth, changed to something clouded and mysterious.” 

A woman in a top hat and tailcoat laughs, “Serious innit! An’ are ya as intoxicatin’?! Pretty man like yerself, I bet me supper ya’ve somet’n fine beneaf dem get-ups.”

Castiel is charmed by her drawl and gives a sly wink. “Oh, so I am told! But I shall never share the truth of it before I’ve been bought a drink or five.”

“Five it is!”

Castiel lets himself be taken away with the laughter and good cheer of the place. There is something to be said about the sheer outlandishness around him. The libertines, while quite deviant and extraordinary, do not let themselves act boorish or get too excited. There always seems to be some sort of sophisticated control to them, even in the midst of the most debauched of revels. Here, in this strange den of inverts and players, all is wild and free. Until now, it is something Castiel has not known in its full splendor.

Castiel’s eyes wander the crowd until they land on the most remarkable creature. At first glance, he is certain it is Dean. But what would the man be doing in this place, and dressed in women’s fashion, no less! Upon further inspection, Castiel can see that it is, indeed, not Dean at all, but a younger version of the man. Dean must be near to thirty, but the fellow in Castiel’s sights must be of a similar age to Cas himself, perhaps twenty at the very most. He--or perhaps she is the better word--is tall and elegant, dressed in fine ladies clothes, and has such a beautifully made-up face it puts most women Castiel has seen to shame. 

Castiel is filled with an overwhelming sense of longing at that moment. Everything about Dean is perfection to him, from the soft plumpness of his lips to the slight bowing of his legs, as if he had been born on horseback. Josie had said to give the man some time so he could figure out his mind, but Castiel cannot picture himself going another day without him.

Castiel leans into the fellow beside him and whispers, “Who is she?” He motions with his head at the not-Dean across the room. If Dean cannot be got, then he will take the next best thing. 

“Ahh, that be our Gloriana, a hard one to catch, she is! I wish ya the best o’ luck should you find yourself in pursuit!” He claps Castiel on the shoulder with a grin, then turns to laugh as someone walks up to whisper in his ear. The fellow stands and walks off with a muscular invert who smells of cheap perfume--his seat taken swiftly by another who had been resigned to hover.

Hard to catch means nothing to Castiel. He is quite determined to know this lass, and so he stands up and walks to where she stands amidst a crowd of admirers. His tablemates cheer him on as they notice who has caught his eye, and wish him great success--though some grumble that they could give him a better time. 

Castiel stands taller than most of the other patrons in the smoky room, so he is easy to spot as he approaches. She tsks at the fawning men around her when her smiling, green eyes land upon the finely dressed young man. “Do move aside, now here is a proper gentleman if I’ve ever seen one.” 

Castiel takes her extended hand as he steps up and gives a deep bow. “They say you are Gloriana. Vertue gives her selfe light, through darkenesse for to wade.” He lightly brushes his lips against the soft skin of her hand and he can practically feel her purring at his touch. Her eyes sparkle as if she has caught sight of some great treasure. She likely has not had occasion to consort with the likes of Castiel, and he can see the greed and want plainly etched upon her perfectly symmetrical features. “Does my lady dance?”

There is no music to be had, only the laughter and caterwauling of the patrons and performers, but she smiles and stands close. They waltz to their own tune for a time, Castiel getting lost in the features that are so alike to Deans that he nearly forgets he is not pressed up close to the man he loves. She is a hair shorter than Cas and the muscles beneath her bustled gown are leaner than Dean’s, but the likeness is so uncanny that it is easy for Castiel to be drawn in by the wide green eyes staring adoringly at him.

He leans in and places a soft kiss to her plump lips, lingering for a moment, sharing the same air, before pulling back to resume his staring. She laughs, and it sounds nothing like Dean, but it is soothing all the same. “How bold and presumptuous of you, sir. And I would normally hold my virtue so close!” She winks, then laughs again. Her voice is softer, and not as deep as Dean’s. Castiel chooses to imagine that it is what Dean sounded like when he was just a lad. 

“Ah, never presumptuous! But I could not resist. I had to see if you are as sweet as you look.”

“And am I?”

“Sweeter.” But not as sweet as Dean. Castiel tries to shut that voice out of his head and focuses on entertaining the lady before him.

They dance and make merry for what seems like hours. The dwarven performer joins them for a round--a fiery vixen who goes by the name of Tall Suzan, though in his day to day life is Edward--and regales them with tales of his adventurous life. Castiel finds he has not laughed so hard in his life, and it is almost startling how easy it all comes out with this group.

He is relatively close-mouthed about his own affairs. The libertines are an entirely different sort of hedonist than the company he currently keeps. They are almost cruel and calculating in their pleasure-seeking, where this crowd of inverts and actors simply wish to make the most of their short lives with love and laughter. Castiel wouldn’t see any of his darkness snuff out their brilliant light, despite his earlier desire for blood.

Castiel does not wish to see any of them part, so invites every last soul in the establishment to stay at his estate where they may dine on fine food and drink to their heart's content. There are very few who decline--those who have wife and children waiting at home for them and only come to these places occasionally for a bit of release from the daily tedium of the slums. The rest will not pass up the opportunity to attend an affair at one of the wealthiest homes in London, a treat none of them ever thought to have so freely offered to the likes of themselves. 

To make up for stealing the majority of tavern’s patrons away, Castiel buys several cases of gin and whiskey from the aproner, then hires a cart to transport the liquor (and many of the excited revelers) home. He hires a cabbie for himself and makes sure that Gloriana and Tall Suzan are among those who pack themselves in with him, one fair lass on each knee. To those who are on foot, he gives a bottle of gin to share so the walk is more enjoyable and tells them to go straight through the front door when they arrive, propriety be damned. He shall have his servants join in the merriment and will not have them answering doors!

When they arrive, Castiel makes certain everyone has a drink and knows to make the house their own, then sends his man-cook to make a great feast. He feels poorly for having the man work while there is festivity all around him, but Castiel hardly knows the first thing about making his own food. 

Everyone makes themselves at home and lively conversation springs to life. Someone has found Kelso’s old piano and fills the place with upbeat parlor tunes that have many of them dancing and singing along. Castiel waltzes with Gloriana again, still longing for it to be Dean in his arms. He makes a valiant effort not to think too much, for this evening is all about chasing the pleasures in life. (And Castiel decides it is also a celebration of death. Arthur had given his life in such a remarkable way, that Cas cannot help but to thank him. Though he keeps that thought--and his murderous tendencies--to himself.) 

After several hours of laughter and merriment, many of the crowd have wandered home or found places to fall asleep--sprawled across the couch and settees, or even upon the cold wooden floor! He leads Gloriana and Tall Suzan up to his own room only to find a pile of limbs already entwined upon his bed. Castiel does not think to usher the lovemakers from his personal space, but instead chooses to join them. His bed is quite large, after all, and he is of a mind to have as many of this strange group as he can. There is not one of them that is not lovely in their own way.

Castiel nearly calls for Adam. What fun it would be to have his valet undress them all, and perhaps join in. He briefly mourns the loss of such a man who was so eager to please in all things, but quickly comes to his senses. 

Tall Suzan has already rid herself of layers of gowns, swiftly becoming Edward in the blink of an eye. Castiel has never had occasion to meet any dwarves before and is immediately drawn to the proportions of his body. The man must do something labour intensive for employment because the top portion of his body looks most similar to a strongman, one who is used to lifting heavy weights. Despite his short stature, Castiel is certain this fellow would overpower him easily. Even his stunted legs look powerful enough to kick a hole through Castiel’s brick walls! Cas had at first thought the dwarf to be portly under all of his layers--he is anything but.

False-Dean is more careful in her disrobing, hesitating once she is down to her petticoats. “I know you are not the sort to mind the company of men, but I thought to inform you that I was never born as a woman, even if I feel as though I should have been.”

Castiel smiles and lifts her chin, planting a soft kiss to her lips. He does not speak, but helps her from her remaining garments and leads her to the bed where Tall Suzan--Edward--is waiting for them to join. The dwarf lazily gropes at a woman beside him.

It quickly becomes a disordered mass of limbs as they all writhe together on Castiel’s bed. He does not know whom he enters or who enters him, whose lips he kisses or whose hands caress his thighs. He loses himself in the pure discordant harmony of their blissful cries, a tune that carries him through to multiple fadings. 

When he finally is spent and slips into the land of dreams, Castiel finds himself back on the altar of bones. He can still hear the lingering sounds of the other’s release, echoing eerily around him as though he were in some great cavern, though he seems to be alone in this dark place of bones and blood. And then before him lies Dean, though he does not wear the face he shows in the waking world--for a single face he has not, but many, all rapidly changing in their expressions. Fear, desire, rage, it all becomes one tangled, beautiful mass of features indistinguishable from the next. The demon, the fallen angel Dantanion. Dean. Castiel now knows for certain that they are one and the same. 

A voice rings out, clear as bells, yet Castiel does not know the language. It seems as if it is something once angelic, now twisted to dark purposes. But he knows the voice of Abaddon and knows that it calls for him, even if he cannot decipher the words. 

When he awakes, riddles and rhymes in some forgotten language spin through his head and he is left with the lingering sense that his dreams are not just the twisted imaginings of a warped mind.

\---

“How can you stand to look at it? It is beautiful, yet entirely terrifying. I do not think I would sleep well if I were alone in the room with it.”

Castiel stands up and steps in beside where Gloriana is studying his portrait. It has decidedly changed from the original painting Dean had created not so long ago. What had looked like a second nose growing from the side of his head has now emerged into a fully formed face, all snarling, razor teeth and black eyes. A third arm sprouts from his chest, bent at the elbow as if it is trying to push a second body out of the first. It truly should be a terrifying sight, but Castiel only feels mildly repulsed by it. And not because of the demonic changes undergoing the painting, but because the whole thing is becoming so...ugly. 

He thinks for a moment on what his reaction might mean. Anyone else watching themselves go through such a transformation, even if it is only a painting, should have a massive fright! But Castiel is merely intrigued, and perhaps, a touch curious as to the how of it all. 

His mind slips back to Dean and tries to replay his words to the man. He had asked for the painting to take all the scars of growing old so he himself could remain young forever. Castiel no longer remains injured and has felt the presence of some new essence manifest within himself. Could Dean really have that power? Could Castiel?

“It is the great metamorphosis. Something which was weak and powerless to become that which people both fear and revere. Is it not something to aspire to?”

False-Dean side-eyes him with a skeptical look. “Greatness is one thing, but why aspire to something so evil?” 

Castiel shrugs. He does not care for this person so much when she speaks. He is too sober to hear anything more on it. “Come. Let’s get to the gin before the others awake and drink me dry.”

\---

Several of the folk set up residence in his estate, which is something Castiel is quite pleased with. It turns out many of them are a part of a players troupe that travels from town to town--though London has brought in a great deal of money and so they are happy to have a semi-permanent residence for the duration of their long stay in the city. 

Castiel practices lines with them all and learns their comedic dance and song routines. Castiel has never been both so happy and sad in his life. He is carefree and willful as a child, but the empty shell in his chest that Dean has left behind grows more pitifully hollow by the day. 

He calls on Josie. Perhaps if she joins in the fray, Dean will be more likely to stop the constant avoidance. He knocks on her door in person, not wanting to send a servant. When he is shown into her parlour, he is buzzing with excitement. “Josephine, dearest! You must attend a gathering at mine. I have found a remarkable group of players who have taken up lodging at the estate. It is an ongoing event from now until I tire of it all.”

She smiles widely at him, a twinkle in her sharp eyes. “How whimsical! I should have known you would be taken by such a group! I will happily attend this evening. I cannot wait to see who you’ve acquired.”

Castiel kisses her cheek. “I will leave you to your affairs, for now.” Castiel hesitates, then adds, “Would you try to call on Dean? I cannot find him still. And he will not answer me.” He looks unhappy with downward eyes, then looks to her face with a hopeful expression that begs her to do this thing for him.

“Of course.” Her smile turns soft and gentle. It is a knowing look.

Castiel returns home and waits. He drinks with the troupe and dances with ladies in varying states of undress; then has his servants cook up a marvelous feast. But he cannot stop the anticipation growing in his chest that Josie might succeed in getting Dean to finally show himself.

\--- 

The evening rolls around and Josie shows up alone. Castiel is pleased to see that she immediately immerses herself in boisterous conversation with the crowd of actors, though his heart sinks that Dean has not accompanied her. He tries not to let the man’s absence ruin his splendid mood, though it is hard not to feel bitter that he has given his heart to one so seemingly fickle. 

“Do not frown, Castiel.” Josie slides her arm through his and leans in to speak, her words state clearly that she knows his thoughts. “He has never been good with his heart and knows not how to process his feelings. As I once said, and will tell you again, he will come ‘round. But when he does, I caution you to proceed delicately, lest there be a bloodbath!” She winks and laughs at her own dark humour, though her words send an indescribable sensation of both apprehension and anticipation coursing through Castiel’s body. If Dean were to let loose a tempest of destruction upon his estate, it would surely be a sight to see! But Castiel adores these strange folk that have taken up residence in his home, so he would like to think he would be against such actions. Castiel tries his very best not to be thrilled at the thought.

He dances with Josie, and Gloriana, and Tall Suzan, letting thoughts of Dean slip to the back of his mind. He will enjoy the company of these entertainers whilst he can. 

It is quite a shock to him to look into the small crowd to find Duma being twirled about by a dapper young man with a thin, curled moustache. He hadn’t ever told her his address, though he is something of high standing in the city, so it really should be of no surprise that he has been easily found. But what the woman is doing in his estate is quite the carriwitchet. 

Castiel wracks his brain and is certain that he hadn’t formally invited her, nor had he accepted her marriage proposal--or had he? He has been too caught up in chasing his pleasure to recall the details in full. And to be frank, he has forgotten all about the woman since meeting the players! 

He gracefully slides into her space, replacing the gentleman she was waltzing with and easily steps into the rhythm of the dance. “And what brings you to my humble estate, lady? Quite a surprise it was for me to see you dancing here! I did not think they would let you out at night when there are so many out there needing their release. I imagine Camden has a long line of unhappy men that wish you were to be found.”

Duma lets out a small laugh, though it is entirely mirthless. “I would have words with you, but it seems that you are not alone. I did not expect a party so early in the week, and to be escorted in by a man wearing lipstick, no less!” She laughs again and there is more amusement to the sound this time. “You are a remarkable fellow, Castiel. To keep such friends as these! I find I admire you all the more for it, for who else of your station would consort with the like?” 

“Ah, but they are wonderful people. I like to think if I had not been born to wealth, I would have run away to join some vagrant band of performers and lived out my life happy as a clam. Even if poor, their lives are far richer than mine shall ever be.” Castiel slows the pace of their dance as the music changes. Someone has put a cylinder on his phonogram, the crackle of it filling a room before a slow waltz begins to play. The piano player steps away to join in the new dance. “What words did you wish to have? Tell me, I am all ears.”

“Is there a place where we would have privacy? As gay a time as I am having with this dance, I would not have everyone overhear.”

Castiel glances around the room with a pensive frown. He does not wish to engage in any serious discussion, especially not one that would require privacy and discretion. He locks eyes with Josie from across the room and he can see her trying to hide her amused smile behind her glass of absinthe as if she knows what Duma is about. Castiel sighs, then says, “Very well. I assure you there will be people in every room, but we can step into the kitchen where only the occasional servant will be about.”

He takes her hand and leads her to the back of the estate and into the large kitchen. He tells the man-cook to take a short rest and to enjoy some of the food he has prepared, then leans himself against the countertop and crosses his arms. “What words would you say, my dear?”

“Have you thought more on what we spoke of?”

Castiel pinches the bridge of his nose. He knew this was coming. “I’m sorry, lady. I have not had time for deep thought these days. And I assure you it will be some time before decisions regarding marriages will be made.”

“I have quit the brothel. I would stay here with you while you decide, if you would be so kind.”

Castiel’s eyes snap to her face. “You wish to stay here? I think it is a poor idea, lady. I hardly have time to fuss over you right now. You have a place to stay, why not go back there?”

Duma hisses, “What a terrible thing to intrude on your important matters of drinking and carousing! You have nothing  _ but _ time!” 

Castiel becomes annoyed. He is used to having all the attention--and thoroughly basks in it on most occasions!--but it is a completely different matter to have demands made of him. Is it so unreasonable to wish to be left to his own devices? Others will always try to insinuate themselves into his life, whether it be for his looks or his wealth, and Castiel supposes he should learn to deal with it at some point, but he is in no mood to handle such things at the moment. “Why do you insist that I’m such a good match for you? Because I have money? Trust me when I say that you would be abandoned to a coffin of luxury, and that is no life.”

Duma persists. “You do not wish to be tied down, I understand. I will be no burden or scold! I will tend to myself and the children and you can be left to do what you will.”

“Children! What children? I have none and do not wish for any!” Castiel is glad to see a bottle of wine sitting upon the counter and takes a swig straight from the bottle.

Duma lowers her eyes and places a protective hand to her belly. Understanding dawns on Castiel as to the true purpose of her visit. So the tart has gotten herself a bun in the oven and wishes to make it Castiel’s affliction too. “Oh, no. Do not put your misfortunes on me, lady. I think this should be the end of it, if you wish to come into my home and lay such burdens on me.”

“Burdens! But it is yours to bear! You did this to me, now do what is right. If you were any sort of man at all, you would not have me raise your child in a brothel.”

Castiel clutches the wine bottle tightly in his hands and imagines it is Duma he is choking the life from. He starts feeling that pesky itch under his skin. “Not mine! I tell you, you have no proof of it!”

Duma huffs. “A sot and a scoundrel, you are! And yet here I am willing to put myself in your hands. Please, see the truth of this. We can have a good life!”

Castiel throws the bottle at Duma, missing her by mere inches, glass shattering upon the wall behind her. Red wine splashes about the clean work surface and mimics the beautiful, red flow of blood, rivulets streaming down to the floor in a hypnotic manner. “If you stay I will rip the thing out with a hook! Leave and do not call on me again, or I shall have you arrested for trespassing!” 

He half wishes for her to stay. He has a much more sinister way he would like to dispose of her than simply calling for the police. The choice will be hers.

“Castiel!” Duma lets out a startled cry and nervously twists her fingers around the fabric of her skirts. “If you can’t be reasoned with tonight... please think on it when you are calmed.”

Castiel must have all sorts of menace in his eyes, for he can feel something inky dull his vision, like looking through a sheer, black cloth. Duma takes a slow step back, her own eyes widening substantially. He does not know what she sees when she looks upon his face, but she shows no outward fear in her actions, only surprise. She does not speak further, but slowly smiles, then turns and walks out the door as if she has not just been threatened. Castiel admires her for such mettle. 

Once she is out of his space, he moves to finish off the bottle of wine, only to remember that it has been ruined. He goes to his pantry to take out a fresh bottle of gin--something of which he is running surprisingly low on already!--then heads to the solitude of his own room to drink in silence for a time. It is blessedly free of any revelers and Castiel is grateful for the chance to rid himself of this headache that has crept behind his eyes.

He wishes to calm himself before going back to his guests, but he can only seem to pace and fume. Steam should be shooting from his ears with all the anger he feels at the moment! He takes a long pull from his bottle, then sits on the edge of his bed and studies his portrait. It has most decidedly changed again. 

The arm and face have pulled away from Castiel’s body, now revealing a fully formed head with neck and shoulder. Two small stubs protrude from its forehead, as if the beginnings of horn are taking shape. The original form seems to be decaying, and Castiel can almost smell the stench of his own death lingering in the air around him. He swallows hard and tries to look elsewhere, but cannot pull his eyes away for the life of him. He sits transfixed.

He does not know how he should explain this transformation to his mortal guests.

\---

Josie sits beside him. “What was all that commotion about? You look decidedly upset, dear Castiel. Tell me what has transpired.”

“It’s this Duma lady that has been hired on at some of the parties…” Castiel sighs angrily. “She’s gotten with incident and demands I marry her! The gall of that woman to show up at my doorstep. She’s a hired tart and nothing more!” 

“Do not be too upset, Castiel. It is the way of humans to do such things. They think we will be servants to them and try to entrap us in these mundane schemes of theirs.”

“Humans? Are we not human, you and I, Josie?”

Josie smiles knowingly at him but says nothing more in it.

“No, I suppose not. Something about this painting...” Castiel raises an eyebrow at her. “And I dream things, you know? Abaddon.” The smile on her face transforms into something so brilliant he can barely stand to look directly at it. She leans in and gives him a slow, lingering kiss. He can taste the barest hint of sulphur on her tongue.

“Leave this to me, sweet boy. She will not be a burden again.”


	15. Chapter 15

He had not been thinking clearly when he granted Castiel his wish. 

Hundreds of years he has spent with Abaddon, lapping up the delights of their work like a starving dog, never faltering in his duties to Hell. Whether it be collecting souls with their fierce hounds or sowing dissent amongst the ranks of the numerous holy orders, it mattered not. There was always a thrill to be had in the corruption they wrought. 

And Castiel was certainly a thrill! But with one little sentence, the wording just right, Dean--Dantanion--has been the one to be captured under his own spell. (He has always been capable of making others fall deeply in love with him; it is his gift. Now he has had this power turned back on himself and he knows not what to do!)

_ “I wish for you to love me for all eternity. Let this painting grow old and bear the scars of life so that we may never be separated, even by death. For this gift, I would gladly give my soul.” _

_ Dean stares into wide, blue eyes--bluer than any flower or deep ocean he has known--and lets himself be lost in the passion of the moment. He grants the wish with a kiss and finds that he really and truly is in love with the young man. A sensation he has never known--a sensation both marvelous and terrifying all at once.  _

It had not taken long for this feeling to turn into something twisted. But twistedness is only fitting for a demon like himself. There is no room in his being for something so pure and innocent as love. 

He has found himself obsessed, possessive, and prone to ruminating on all of the reasons he should flee from Castiel. He does not like the feeling in his chest and does anything to crush it into oblivion. After witnessing Castiel give himself so freely to any who would have him, his mind snapped. He nearly dragged Castiel away there on the spot so the man could know no other but Dean for the rest of his long life (eternity and longer). But instead, Dean fled, hoping that isolating himself from Castiel would lessen his feelings.

But he had unwittingly cursed himself. A deal is a deal and cannot be broken for any reason. Castiel’s soul is his, but he now belongs just as fully to Cas. Dean feels like the butt end of this joke. 

It truly has been hardly a week since he has seen Castiel, but he finds it hard to think of anything else. The way his smile brightens up any dark space with the miracle of First Light, or how his legs wrap around Dean like they were created purely for that purpose. 

Dean does all he can to get the man out of his mind, despite the knowledge that he is well and truly fucked. He goes north to a secluded abbey near Hethpool of Northumberland and does a most bloody massacre of the holy inhabitants who reside there. It eases his mind to paint the walls red, but for only a moment. The overwhelming need to return to London and see his Castiel again is most prominent. 

He then ventures east to Kirk Yetholm of Scotland where he finds a caravan of gypsies from the eastern continent. They all die bloody and screaming. And yet Dean cannot stop thinking of how lovely it would be for Castiel to be covered in their blood, how he would lie the man down and lick the gore from his body, and how he sorely misses the cries Castiel makes when Dean touches him just right. 

Dean lets out a sob of frustration, of rage and longing, blood tears sliding down his cheeks. He’s been caught in his own treacherous web. He snarls and the roar of a thousand lions escapes his lips. With determination, he sets out back to London. There is only one thing left to try to escape this mess he has made of himself. Castiel must die.

But of course, nothing is that simple. 

Dean closes his eyes and focuses his will on being elsewhere--pictures his studio filled with his paintings and stretched canvas, imagines the smell of freshly cut wood and turpentine. When he opens his eyes again, he is in the space--a much superior way to travel than by train or horse, to be certain!

Dean lays eyes upon the wall of paintings he has made of Castiel. He has not shown the young man these newest pieces, and so goes to work collecting them all and placing them in a neat stack to be transported to Castiel’s estate. But all thoughts of murdering the man slip from his mind the moment he sees that wonderful face--even if it is only his painted version of it. As talented as he has become in capturing the most lifelike of scenes, it is still only an imitation--though he cannot wait to see the delight in Castiel’s eyes when he sees how hard at work Dean has been. He wishes only to impress at this moment.

It is quick work to have his cart loaded. He always has horses and a carman at the ready, and so within minutes he is set out through the Piccadilly streets en route to Arlington. Dean smiles in anticipation at seeing Cas again, then realizes what he is doing. It is the spell and nothing more that has him like this! He squeezes his eyes shut and pictures how nice it should be to see Castiel burning in the depths of hell--out of his hair and out of his mind! 

The thought does something horrible to Dean’s chest, and he hears a pitiful sob escape his lips. He is an appointed Duke of Hell with legions of demons at his fingertips to command! How can he possibly feel the sorrow of such a separation? He is all the more determined to break this curse, even if it means crushing his own callous heart to do so. Once the spell has been broken, Dean should again be free to feel as he always has--or more precisely, should be able to go back to having such an enjoyable lack of feeling. 

When he arrives at the estate, Dean forgets the stack of portraits and tells the carman to wait for his return. He knows the man will obey, for he has seen Dean’s anger and knows to do as he is told lest he meet a most disturbing end. 

With determination, he marches through the front doors without a knock, nor does he politely wait for a servant to let him within. Inside the estate there is a disparate crowd of merrymakers in various states of drunken abandon, but Dean pays them all little mind. They are not Castiel. 

Someone tries to grab his hand for a dance, which he easily brushes off in his haste to find Cas. He is not in the kitchens or parlour or great hall. Dean tries the upper floor, taking the stairs two at a time. And then he is there before Dean, leaning against the corridor wall with the bridge of his nose pinched tightly between two fingers. Castiel looks distressed--and it is such an unhappy sight that Dean immediately loses all the anger he had been feeling up to this point. It is replaced with such deep concern that he nearly chokes on his own tongue in shock from it. 

Castiel looks up and sees Dean standing before him and the smile he shows transforms his face into something so heavenly that Dean is left breathless and trembling. He should be smote on the spot from such divine beauty. And then he is suddenly in Castiel’s arms, sweet lips upon his own in a kiss that leaves him feeling as if he has been sucked into an eddy. 

His feet move as Castiel guides him, though he does not pay attention to where they go, so wrapped up in the feeling of Castiel against his body. He is pushed backwards and finds himself falling onto Castiel’s bed. It is unkempt and smells strongly of sex, but Dean can barely register that he is upset over Castiel straying, for the man expediently removes his clothing and is upon him again in moments.

Castiel tears at Dean’s shirt and trousers, ripping them at the seams in his haste to have Dean in naught but his skin. Castiel slurs words into Dean’s mouth, drunk on their reunion. “I missed you too much. I cannot bear to be without you. Never leave me again.” 

Dean lets Castiel fuck him--something he never allows, unless it is the desire of one of the Hell Kings of much higher rank than himself. But he belongs to Castiel as much as the man is owned by Dean and he cannot find it in himself to say no. He gives up his power in that moment and he can only hope that Castiel realizes what is truly being gifted to him with this act.

“Never. I will never leave your side.” Dean feels his own words tear at the flesh of his dead heart when he realizes what he is doing. This is certainly no way to kill the young man--if that is something that can even be accomplished at all! Dean knows he is far too trapped in this web of his own making. A blood tear slides down his cheek as he stares up into Castiel’s eyes. “I love you.” 

He is truly damned.

\---

Castiel thought Dean would certainly flip their positions and take him apart as he normally would, but when he urged Castiel to enter him, a newfound sense of love and gratitude filled Castiel to his core. He has never known such profound emotion as when he is with Dean.

He can feel some strange, dark energy pass between the two of them, as if their own shadows have been given life. Castiel can feel those great, batlike wings unfurl behind him as he slowly moves himself inside of Dean. Dean’s green eyes widen, then inky black takes over. There is so much love and adoration in that demonic gaze that Castiel is overcome. He lets his own eyes slip into black, abyssal pools, returning the longing back to Dean tenfold. 

But they do not fuck like monsters. It is with the most human sincerity that he loves Dean and shows it in the slow, deep working of his hips. 

\---

“Dean, your eyes are black.” Castiel lays back on the bed and turns his head to stare at the man, his handsome features covered in a fine sheen of sweat. Dean has himself propped up on one elbow, and his free hand traces patterns across Castiel’s chest.

“So are yours.” 

Castiel huffs out a short laugh, then asks with an unbelieving tone. “Did I really sell my soul? I didn’t think such things truly existed!”

“Yes.” Dean blinks and his eyes become green again. Castiel determines to master such control. It simply will not do to have himself slipping back and forth unawares. 

“So you have been a monster this whole time... Are you even capable of the love you declare?”

Dean scowls and looks like nothing more so than a kicked puppy, but his words hold venom. “You’re a monster now, too! You tell me.”

Castiel ignores the question lingering in the air: Is any of this true, or is it all part of some wicked spell? “I don’t feel like my soul is gone.”

Dean sighs. “It’s not. Not entirely.”

“What does that mean? Will I wind up being tortured in the pits? Or will I slowly lose myself and become something truly evil?”

Dean shakes his head. “Enough. Nothing is yet determined. I don’t have any answers for you.”

Despite the idea that Castiel may spend a lifetime being ripped apart by the foul beasts of hell, he feels no fear at what the future may hold. So long as Dean is by his side, the final outcome does not seem so important.

\---

Others try to enter the room that he and Dean occupy. Castiel can hear the deep voice of Tall Suzan inquiring to his well being and he smiles at the thought that the dwarf has taken up residence like he belongs in the place. Castiel is sure that Dean will get along splendidly with the fellow, whether he be playing the part of Suzan or Edward. He would make a wonderful study for Dean’s portraits! Castiel says as much and determines to have one hung upon his wall. 

Dean frowns when the soft voice of Gloriana next disturbs their reunion. “Get rid of her, Cas. You have given too much of yourself to her and you should be no-one’s but mine!” He is jealous if Castiel has ever seen it!

“She is so sweet, though, Dean. Don't you wish to taste her?”

Dean’s eyes turn black again and his expression is most hateful. “Oh, yes. I wish to lick every last drop of her blood from your body. That would be a most joyous flavour, indeed.”

Castiel tuts, then pulls Dean closer. “You know none compare to you. I would do anything to keep you near, you know that. What would it take to prove it?”

“Anything?”

”Yes.”

Dean kisses Castiel, then pulls back a fraction. “Then kill them for me, Cas. All of them.”

“I would slaughter every last person here for you, Dean. What does my pleasure mean if you are not by my side for it?”

“Do it then. Kill them all. If you truly love me, then this will prove that you are only mine.”

Castiel smiles and starts to protest that they keep the dwarf when a knock to the door interrupts them again. It is Gloriana’s sweet voice that chimes out, still seeking entrance to the locked doors. “Castiel? There is a constable below and demands to speak with you!”

Dean rolls his eyes, then shoves Castiel off the bed. “You truly have been up to mischief! Go on, then. See what the fuss is. But Cas?”

Castiel stops and looks over his shoulder as he throws on a clean pair of trousers. “Yes?”

“Tonight. We’ll kill them tonight.”

\---

“What did the constable want?” Josie glides up to Castiel and puts a hand to his creased brow, smoothing out the frown lines. 

“Duma. That… woman. She has jumped from bridge to Thames and taken her own life. Ha! So it seems she told everyone that I was going to marry her and that she was moving into the estate. Now I am supposed to pretend to be grieved at her passing. What a laugh!” But Castiel does not laugh. He is quite upset, though he doesn’t know if it is because he was not the one to kill the woman, or if it is still her insinuating herself, even after her death. But there is something deeper than all that--pity, perhaps. It surely isn’t sorrow that has his guts twisted. Another thought comes to him, “Though I must admit, that someone taking their own life for my sake, it is… profound.”

Castiel begins to itch and he suddenly feels antsy. Whatever emotions Duma’s death has brought to him turns into something entirely dark. “Josie, my dear. Dean has had a splendid idea. Why don’t you come upstairs for a moment. If I guess correctly, you would not wish to miss out on this.”

\---

“My, my, Dean. I’ve always known you to be one to get your hands bloody, but why should you wish to have all these merrymakers perish so violently? And do not get me wrong, I am all for whatever whim you have, as I have always been behind you, but do you not think it is a touch extreme? Hell has already been abuzz with your recent northern exploits. You know how Lord Morningstar loves this city. I think he would be quite cross with you if you showed your hand like this in his fair London.”

Dean scoffs. “I have never gotten along with that pompous buffoon. What do I care if he becomes cross? It would not be the first time we have bumped heads. And he has nothing to do with my desires--this is not a hand I am showing. This we must do for love.”

Josie throws her head back and lets out a most full-bodied laugh. It takes her a moment to collect herself, then when she can speak, exclaims, “Love!” She side-eyes the confused look on Castiel’s face, finding the tilted head and furrowed brow to be ridiculous, though can see how it may be endearing to Dean, the fool. She has heard about the nature of their deal--demons are prone to gossip, didn’t you know?--and knows that Dean will be a slave to every twist and change to those youthful features, just the same as Castiel will have no option but to wish to sate all of Dean’s twisted desires. She sighs and acts quite put-upon, though she is always made happy by a slaughter. “Very well. If Dean wants blood, then there must be blood.”

\---

The sun falls below the horizon and night comes to greet the estate with a kiss that holds promises of death. Only a dozen of the actors remain, any who have permanent homes of their own having finally left to attend their lives. Their laughter is uneasy, as if they can feel the murderous intent in the very air, and so their revelry is quite subdued, though none wish for the enjoyment to end. 

Castiel has left his door wide open, inviting any who wish to have a turn in his sheets to venture within. They are sodden and filthy things at this point, but what does he care to have clean bedclothes? They will only become sullied again in short order.

It is only moments before the first intrepid souls approach, draping themselves across the doorframe and giving off their most sultry of gazes. With Dean having arrived, and Gloriana having hogged his affections prior to, there are still many of the actors who have yet to fulfill their longing. But now that the man is sharing himself, there are none who do not wish to claim a place within his bed.

The first to be taken is a gangly and somewhat awkward young man who calls himself Garth, who, when disrobed, is found to have full female anatomy--with small, bound breasts and a false penis packed within his trousers. He is joined by a black-haired beauty called Pamela who is so exquisite in her voluptuous curves that she could be likened to the classical painted goddess. Her looks are sullied only by a prosthetic leg, though Castiel finds her all the more appealing for it. Especially when the leg is detached and he can gently run his fingers across the silken scars of the stump.

The two of them are beautiful as they are taken apart, heads thrown back and voices singing out to praise the sinful cleverness of Castiel’s tongue. Something awful stirs in Castiel’s chest when Dean slides a knife into his hand. He does not wish to harm these perfect creatures. If God were present he would let it be known that this is what humanity  _ is. _ The quirks of personality and imperfections of flesh that make it all so...perfect.

But if Castiel must choose between Dean and his mortal fancies, he knows there will never be a time when he could not obey the man’s desires. And so he slashes out, one throat then another, so quick that neither have time to utter a cry or warning. Garth and Pamela choke on their own life’s blood, and a part of Castiel’s heart dies with them. 

The fragrant smell of their blood makes him sick, and he must shove off of their bodies with haste so he can empty his stomach upon the floor. He feels a cold hand caressing the back of his clammy neck in a comforting gesture, but all it does is make him angry. He shoves the hand away, only realizing that it is Josie after he has struck out. He feels he should apologize for the action, which only makes him angrier. His eyes become black. 

He stands tall and faces her, but the power emanating from her screams of something ancient, something dangerous. And so he lowers his eyes in deferment, then turns to Dean. All anger drains from his body at the wide-eyed, innocent wonder on Dean’s face--if a black-eyed demon can be said to look as such. Castiel’s heart both hardens and melts at the same time. He knows that he will do anything in his power to make Dean gaze at him so. And so he forms a callous about his heart as he says, “Who shall we have next?”

\---

Castiel doses the remaining actors and inverts--Gloriana and Tall Suzan included-- with a medicine Josie has miraculously procured from some hidden pocket within her gown. It would not do to have them searching about looking for where their companions have run off to. And so they sleep soundly until they may take their turn.

They do not bother with corpse disposal, but simply move from room to room, locking the doors behind them as they leave a trail of dead in their wake. Castiel’s estate soon becomes like some twisted waxworks display showing off the sick work of the deranged killers throughout history, each room telling its own story of death and betrayal. 

“I think we should burn it all down when this is done. This was Kelso’s estate, and I care not to remain in it.”

Dean smiles at him and Castiel can already see the flames reflected in his black eyes, images of that potential future dancing before him. It is as if Dean shows him what could be in those inky black gateways, and Castiel wonders of all the other possible futures they may have.

When all have been slain and only Gloriana and Tall Suzan remain, Castiel again feels a great pit of sorrow open up beneath his feet. If he allows himself to fall, he knows he could wallow in its depths for all eternity. But Dean again urges him forward.  _ Kill for me.  _ And Castiel must. He must close his eyes and have faith in his footing, trusting Dean and Josie to forever be by his side. That alone should be enough to ease the turmoil within his heart.

\---

Gloriana never even stirs as Castiel lifts her sleeping body and carries her up to his bedroom. Whatever herbs Josie had provided are quite powerful, and Castiel is glad that the beauty in his arms never wakes. She is so alike to Dean in appearance that he cannot truly take her life, and hands his blade over to Dean so he may do the deed in his stead.

Dean pouts for a moment, telling with his expression what he thinks of Castiel’s lack of conviction. Castiel defends himself, “You are too alike! It would be like slicing your throat, a thing which I could never bring myself to do. You must, for I cannot.” 

It is not Dean who scoffs at this, but Josie, who, up until this point has remained as a silent witness to the whole affair. “Weak.” Her voice is like the hiss of a whip, cracking Castiel deep into his bones, leaving behind a sharp pain in his chest. Castiel blinks at her in surprise. She has never once said an unkind word to him and the sudden disappointment in her eyes is enough for Castiel to feel like a small, scolded child, wishing only for motherly arms to embrace him and tell him all will be well. 

He nearly falls to his knees to beg her forgiveness, but a soft voice fills the room. “Castiel? I must have fallen asleep. Why are you all standing about looking like you are about to have rows? Is this not a time of merriment in this house?” 

Then all in the room begin speaking at once, and Castiel closes his eyes, not entirely sure what he should do.

“Kill her, Castiel!”

“I don’t see the problem. He doesn’t even look like me. I thought you loved me.”

“Dean, do not be so petty. You are like a pouty little child sometimes. But Castiel, she needs to die.”

“What? Shit, shit…”

Screams erupt (not true screams, but the panicked garbles a voice makes when too terrified to scream) and Castiel opens his eyes to find that Gloriana has taken a look around and noticed the fresh corpses laid out on the bed beside her, the drug having worn off of its groggy effects.

Dean pounces upon the poor invert and holds the knife to her throat. This action immediately cuts off the choked-out cries trying to escape Gloriana’s mouth. Castiel looks at them with trepidation. Their faces truly are like mirror images, though one is tall and strong, the other with long flowing hair and slender physique. 

“Castiel,” Dean growls at him, his presence commanding. Castiel moves forward and takes the knife from his hand, carefully pointing it at the trembling figure beneath them. He must not think too closely on this. He has already killed and reveled in the bloodshed. It is a confusing thing to him why these simple actors should make him feel like his actions are so wrong. 

Castiel closes off his mind and his heart and turns his eyes to Dean--the real Dean--and focuses on the man he made his wishes for. He stabs down before he can stop himself again, not even bothering to see where the knife lands. He can feel it sink deep into flesh and bone, and the warm blood spatters from the wound to hit his hands and neck. There is a gurgling sound and he can feel Gloriana weakly thrashing below, but he still will not look at anything but Dean.

When Dean smiles and kisses him, Castiel lets out a sigh of relief. His weary mind begins to ease and he thinks that anything he must do to make the man smile at him like that is all worthwhile. But then there is an odd sensation, almost like a tugging, Castiel feels in his chest. It is mild at first, then begins to grow in intensity until it is a pain so sharp he must break away from Dean’s kiss to cry out in dismay. It’s as if Dean has reached into his chest and is trying to pull away the dregs of his fragmented soul. 

Castiel resists. As he struggles to hold on to that last bit of his humanity, flashes go through his mind of all the ill deeds he has done and all the horrible things that have been done to him that any sane individual would be scarred for life by; all these things that he has done and witnessed that affected him not the way a normal human should be affected. 

He stumbles away from Dean and the bed full of corpses and looks directly at his painting. The creature that has been slowly pulling away from his original form is fully emerged. What once was a sultry young man lying out at his ease is now a shriveled, cadaverous husk. The beast that looms over it is vaguely Castiel, but so monstrous it makes him sick to see. The demon is all red and black veins with eyes dark as pitch. The legs bend the wrong way and the face is so sinister in its ugliness that it is truly deserving to be the thing of nightmares. 

Dean appraises the painting with a look of pure awe on his face. “Behold, such unparalleled beauty. Castiel! You are the greatest work of art I have ever hoped to create.” 

“Beauty?” Castiel chokes out with a ragged breath. He, for the first time since this all began, is seeing with perfect clarity. Josie approaches him with a congratulatory smile, but all he can see is the twisted features of Abaddon. When she touches his cheek, it is like icicles and leaves behind a lingering stench of decay and sulphur. Dean’s once perfect features shift and change constantly, many grotesque faces taking over in rapid succession. He has seen Dean like this once before, as the fallen D’antanion, and thought it a strange hallucination at the time. And under some spell he must have been to think any of it charming.

Castiel flinches away from their gazes. He does not wish for any of this. In a panic, he does the only thing he can think to do. Destroy the painting--his source of immortality. He grabs the lamp oil and douses the thing, forgetting the knife he had just used to murder the only people he has ever know who could be considered true friends.

Dean and Josie both cry out his name, but Castiel is in a frenzy and he ignores their efforts to calm him. He said he would like to burn the whole place down, and this is what he intends to do, with himself and the painting right in the middle! He runs from the room and collects all of the half-empty gin and whiskey bottles from around the house and begins smashing them near all the draperies and flammable upholsteries. More lamp oil is found in the study, and that is poured out all over the pristine wooden floors.

When Castiel grabs an oil lamp and carries it up to his room, Dean and Josie simply stand back and watch him, both looking a touch wary but ultimately seeming unconcerned. Cas has to wonder if they actually  _ want _ him to do this and has second thoughts on destroying it all--on destroying his painting to see if he might truly die. But then wouldn’t his soul be firmly in the demons' claws? 

After a brief moment of hesitation, Castiel decides his action and flings the lamp against the wall, flames immediately springing up to engulf the place. Even if he will never escape them, a final death with eternity in the pits of hell is all he deserves and he will go to that fate willingly.

Thick smoke begins to fill the hot air and Castiel begins to choke, though it is not as terrible of a sensation as he would have thought. He suspects the painting, which has not yet caught fire, is trying to heal his lungs as the environment around him is simultaneously trying to kill him. He looks around and finds that the conflagration is soothing--watching the light of the orange flames flicker in and around the haze of black smoke, it is all very hypnotic.

Castiel catches sight of Dean, betrayal etched all across his features. He surely does not like this sudden reaction of Castiel’s, but Cas never would have suspected for the man--the demon--to look so hurt by it. Dean’s face has settled properly on that of the man Winchester, not the ever-changing one-hundred faces of D’antanion, and Castiel is struck again by the magnificent beauty. He will miss that face when he is wrapped in the flames of hell.

As Josie tugs on Dean to pull him from the burning building, Castiel is struck with a thought. He never did think to wake the sleeping Edward--Tall Suzan--below, drugged out in the lounge. He hopes the dwarf can wake on time and make it from the blazing inferno, though it is not likely that Dean nor Josie will let the fellow live should he make it out unscathed.

Castiel lets a tear slide down the cheek at the loss of another perfect being--someone who deserved more than the brief acquaintance with Castiel has wrought.

He begins to feel the first ache of burning across his skin, though no fire has yet to reach his body. But the flames have begun licking up his portrait--the paint beginning to bubble as it chars away. His skin begins to blister and turn black and it is the most excruciating sensation Castiel has ever known. The smell of cooking meat fills his nostrils and it is such a sickly thing to know that it is coming from his own self that he swallows down the bile that rises to his throat with his scream.

He sinks to his knees, unable to hold himself upright any longer. It is a surprising thing to Castiel that the pain does not last for long at all, for it must be that his nerves have been so irreparably damaged that he will no longer feel ever again. It is with no regrets that he finally loses his consciousness, his body burning to ash that flits away in the churning air.

\--

When he awakes, he knows it is all wrong. He should have died well and truly with the painting, for it seemed that was the source of all his strange healing. Dean kneels over his supine body, smiling and laughing as Castiel cocks his head to the side and furrows his brows in confusion. His body is not burnt as it should be; in fact, there is not a scar remaining. “How can this be? I felt so poorly that I know I destroyed that painting. Should I not be dead, burning in the pits below as I deserve?”

Dean laughs. “You have killed yourself Cas, but not how you might think. Now you are truly one of us. Tell me. How do you feel?”

Castiel closes his eyes and examines his mood and emotions. All of the uncertainty and fear he had felt prior seems like a vague memory. He is aware that he was in quite the fit of nerves when he took his own life, but why all the death and chaos had suddenly bothered him is as elusive as the wind. The thought of the blood--the sticky scarlet and metallic pungency--fills him with a hunger he cannot fathom.

He opens his eyes. The creature Dantanion grins radiantly at him, his hundred faces each holding a look of love and wonder and Castiel can only see the beauty in the demonic form. He too must have a look of devotion upon his face, for Dean leans in and kisses him gently on his full lips. 

Castiel’s mind is fully unburdened and he is pleasantly surprised at how grand he truly feels. He kisses Dean back and knows that he will always feel wonderful in the death and chaos his new family will surely leave in their wake. 


End file.
